


you're my human holiday

by whisperdlullaby



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Adoption, Engagement, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperdlullaby/pseuds/whisperdlullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which brendon wants babies and weddings, and ryan's not so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're my human holiday

**Author's Note:**

> established relationship. it's mostly fluff, but with a dash of angst (i mean, it is me, after all). but besides that all you really need to know is, ryden! engagements! babies! i should probably also mention that this is NOT an M-PREG.
> 
> originally posted on my lj with the same user in 2010

At first, I was able to ignore it. Push it away, and pretend it wasn’t right there in front of my face. But, then there comes a time, when there are only so many wedding catalogues and baby booties before any man, no matter how dense or thick-headed they may be, begins to take the hint. When that thick-headed, I’m-never-going-to-get-married idiot looks through the phonebook, wedding planner numbers dog-tagged and highlighted, and thinks, shit.

 

*

 

“I think Brendon wants to get married.” 

“Well, no shit.” Spencer snorts, pinching the half-finished joint between his fingers. “You have been together for four years. What did you expect?” 

“Three,” I correct. Spencer shoots me a disbelieving look, and I sigh, rolling my eyes. “And eleven months,” I grumble in defeat. 

“And don’t forget the three years you were fucking before then,” he reminds, smiling complacently. He reaches over the patio table to hand me the joint, blowing a stream of smoke from his mouth. I watch as it drifts into the night, creating swirls of grey smoke before vanishing completely. 

I don’t reply, sucking the sweet smoke back into my lungs. I’m too stubborn and proud to admit being wrong to Spencer - even if it is three-quarters of the time. 

Inside, Bryan Adam’s or something equally as excruciating is playing from Spencer’s state of the art speakers. Even through the screen door, I can hear the faint sound of Brendon and Haley giggling. “He wants a baby,” I say softly, hoping that if I say it quiet enough, it’ll stop being frighteningly real. 

“And you’re just figuring this out now?” Spencer asks. “He fondles and coos to Haley’s baby bump every chance he gets. He’s already calling himself Uncle Bden, and I’m pretty sure he’s masterminding a plan to steal her before she even makes it out of the hospital.”

I groan, pressing the pads of my fingers to my temples. I know he’s right, but god, how I wish he wasn’t. “Yeah,” I reply after a moment, “I know.” 

“And you love him.” I’m not sure it was intended to be a question, but I nod anyway. Spencer sighs, taking the joint back. “You’re almost twenty-eight, Ryan. You can’t be a rockstar forever.”

“I know that,” I say, more strained than I had intended. I still cringe at the mention of my age, and Spencer sees it every time. He’s a whole twelve months and four days younger than me. He doesn’t understand the monstrosity that is twenty-eight. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be a measly two years from the life-ending three-oh. 

A little ways down the beach, illuminated by the row of large houses behind them, a couple sits with a loose dog circling around them. It’s a nice night, the late summer air warm and tide calm. If I squint hard enough, that’s Brendon and I, watching our dogs playing along the surf, like we have many nights before. Dogs I can handle; kids are an entirely different story. 

Spencer takes one last hit on the joint before snubbing it out on the weed-shaped ashtray I remember using back on the Honda Civic Tour. Back when getting high was our main concern. “You love him,” he repeats once more, as if I need reminding. 

I don’t. 

Spencer stands up, stretching his arms over his head. Even through the dim porch light I can see his eyes, shot and rimmed in a vibrant red. “You know,” I comment, reflectively, standing with him, “once you’re a dad you won’t be able to sneak out on the back porch for a quick toke. There will be screaming and babies and formulas - ”

“You too,” Spencer returns, grinning wickedly as he approaches the door. 

“Shut the fuck up.” I knock my hip into his with as much force as I can manage, but as I expected, he hardly seems fazed as he peers through the screen door, the corner of his lips turned up in amusement. I peek over his shoulder. It’s nothing new, just Brendon with his ear glued along Haley’s swollen belly.

I reach past Spencer, pushing him aside to open the door myself, but it’s that moment that Brendon lifts his head, pouting as he smoothes a hand along the bump. “You’re so lucky.”

She laughs, and pets the top of his head, affectionately. “It’ll happen eventually.” 

“Unless men will magically be able to have babies sometime in the near future, I’m kind of doubting it.” 

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Shrugging, he falls back into the couch, sighing woefully. “Even so, I’m still doubting it. I mean, you do know my boyfriend, right?”

“You should ask,” she suggests. 

“Maybe.” He shrugs once more, seemingly unenthused over the idea. 

I swallow, feeling mildly relieved. There’s three ways I can picture that conversation going, and none of them turn out well. 

Haley grins, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. “If you were a girl you would’ve stopped taking birth control a long time ago,” she teases. 

Brendon cracks a grin, sour mood suddenly evaporating. “Probably, yeah.” He laughs, and outside, I feel my stomach drop.

Not wanting to hear anymore, I move to the side, pressing my back to the brick and groan. It’s something I’ve known for awhile, no matter how well I was at ignoring it, but hearing it out loud doesn’t make it any easier to process. 

“You’re fucked,” Spencer says lowly into my ear. He gives me one last look, grinning as he slides open the door and steps inside. 

*

“Don’t you ever wish you could get pregnant?” 

I choke back a breath, lucky and pregnancy and you’re fucked sounding like an alarm inside my mind. I didn’t prepare myself for this when I woke up this morning. “What? No.” I laugh, leaning against our dresser, but the nervous struggle comes through clear.

“Come on,” Brendon persists, running a hand along his belly. It’s dark in our room, the only light coming from the lamp switched on beside our bed, and it casts a perfect silhouette across his features – the soft curve of his lips, the dark eyelashes against pale skin, and the perfectly flat line that makes up his stomach. “You’d have this thing you made, growing inside you. And you know it’d never love anyone more than it loves you.” For a brief moment his eyes slip shut, imagining.

I run a hand over my forehead, feeling a sweat break on. Outside, I hear the waves crash against the sand. I figure if I’m lucky and I think about it hard enough, I’ll be able to open my eyes and suddenly be there instead. 

No such luck. 

“I - ” I stop short, swallowing. There used to be a day when all I wanted was for Brendon to be a girl. I figured that if he was, I could finally feel normal. We could be normal. But now I’m at the point where I don’t know if I’d want that even if it was attainable.

Brendon turns to look at me, catching my gaze. As if the spell is suddenly broken, he turns back to his shirt, popping open the buttons. When I catch his eyes again, they look a bit duller, a tad sadder, and I hate this. 

Moving over to the bed next to him, I reach for his hips, pulling him in for a soft kiss. He seems to stiffen at first, almost resistant, but the moment passes and he sinks into it, kissing me back. I know Brendon’s upset, I know he’s let down, and I know what he wants, how to make it better, but I’m just not sure that I can.

“I love you, you know,” I murmur as I help slide his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. 

All my life I’ve found difficulty in saying those three words. With friends, with girlfriends, with anyone, but when it came to telling Brendon, the one to who I actually meant it and who knew I meant it, I could never seem to get the words from my tongue and into the air. I took me a year and three months into our relationship - the second time around - until I had finally gotten up enough courage to whisper it into his skin, late at night when I had thought he was asleep. It’s easier now, after years and years of practice, and while I mean it with everything in me, there’s still something that makes it more difficult than it should be. 

“I know,” he replies, softly. He knew it even when I couldn’t say it. 

I kiss along his neck, hands dropping to his belt. It’s not until my fingers sneak past the waistband of his underwear before he’s tilting his head away, shrugging me off. “Not tonight,” he says. “I’m tired. Plus, you’re high.” It’s a valuable excuse, after all, because unless Brendon is high himself - which has become less and less frequent over the years - more times than none, he’ll stop any insinuations to sex before they get anywhere close. It’s a known fact that when I’m high, I get lazy and sloppy, and it becomes less sex and more about me trying to stick my dick in something to get off - and it just happens to be Brendon. I don’t mean for it, I just can’t help it. I’m selfish by default, but put a little weed in me and it becomes so much worse. 

However, the joint I shared with Spencer was over an hour ago. There’s more to it than he lets on, I can tell by the look in his eyes and the tone in his voice, but I have no choice but to let it go. 

Pulling back, he says, “Let’s just go to bed.” Without another word, he disappears into the washroom, pulling the door shut. 

I stare after him and think, babies, weddings, for life. I think, you’re screwed. 

I listen to the sound of the tap running behind the closed door, and think, fuck. 

*

When I get home from Spencer’s, I find Brendon in the studio. He doesn’t notice me at first, expression pulled into careful concentration as he bangs away on the drums. It’s not often that he plays them, but over the years I’ve come to the realization that there’s usually only two reasons why he does; he’s upset, or he’s angry. Most of the time, it’s because of me. 

I have to open the door and walk into the recording area, stopping only feet in front of the drum kit before he notices me, jerking in his seat in surprise. His hands come to an immediate stop, and I lean against the wall, biting my lip. “Hi,” I say, awkwardly. 

Brendon wipes some sweat from his brow with his sleeve, the dark fringes of his hair sticking against his skin. “Hi.” He sets the drumsticks down, but doesn’t make a move to get up as he runs a finger along the cymbal, a long silence falling between us. The soundproof walls surrounding us block off any noise coming from upstairs; the dogs, the ocean, the traffic. It’s only the two of us, the soft echoes of our breathing as our eyes catch. I try to read what his say, even though I don’t have to. I already know what they say.

“Do you think,” Brendon starts eventually, “that we could ever be in a band together again?”

I’ve thought about many times before, just as I’m sure Brendon has. It’s not something we’ve discussed seriously, but the question hangs so thick and heavy over us that it would be a lie to say neither of us have noticed it before. “No,” I reply, the words feeling rough and foreign on my tongue. 

To this day, I’m still not sure which break-up resulted from which. Whether the conflicts from the band was brought into our relationship (or fucking. I refused to believe it was anything other than fucking back then) or if it was the other way around. Either way, both blurred together until one day I woke up, and neither of them were there anymore. 

It had been a horrible time for me, drugs and alcohol and bad decisions. It wasn’t until a year later when Brendon and Spencer had shown up at a Young Veins show, Brendon fidgeting and smiling in a way that wasn’t him, a subtle but noticeable difference in him that I realized, shit, what the hell am I doing?

I couldn’t deny it anymore after that. 

Our relationship is different now. Stronger. And I’m done denying like I used to, but I know what it’s like when we’re together, making music. We’re both too stubborn, too touchy, and known to snap sharp, cutting things when pushed. While the ending project can be fantastic, mind-blowing even, it’s the getting there that’s too risky, too disastrous. I can’t take that chance again. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He sighs. “I guess I just miss it sometimes. I mean, the good times. I miss singing your words.”

“I miss it too.” Sometimes, I wonder if we knew each other in a different situation, a different universe where Brendon wasn’t my voice, if we would have wound up together the way we are. There was a trust embedded between us from the second Brendon opened his mouth to sing my words, something much stronger than most couples can hope for. In a way, our relationship started before it ever really began. 

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go upstairs.” 

Brendon looks at me, almost unsure. It takes a moment, but then he’s nodding, standing up from behind the drum kit, and I hold my hand out for him to take. He pauses again, appearing hesitant, and for a second, I think he might not. However, with one last look, he slides his hand into mind, and together, our fingers intertwine one by one. 

*

The first time Brendon and I fucked, I had locked myself in my bunk for precisely twenty-three hours, vowing I’d never let it happen again. The next night, when we were left alone in the dressing room, Brendon had taken on look at me before sinking to his knees. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. 

For months - years even - I told myself it was just this thing. Brendon and me, we got each other, we trusted each other. It was an easy, accessible way to get off on tour. Except, after awhile it would drag on until we were no longer on tour, and I had a girlfriend waiting for me. As it became harder and harder for me to convince myself, the more I would push away and the more Brendon would push forward. It was a viscous game of tug-o-war until the invisible rope between us had finally snapped, and we were both left as losers in a game we never wanted to play. 

The second time around, it was if something had finally clicked inside my brain. Apparently, all we needed was a year apart, and I was no longer able to deny all those feelings that I had done so well at suppressing.

Now, I can appreciate every inch, every molecule of his body, instead of condemning myself, telling myself how wrong it is that I do. Sometimes, I wish I could’ve realized this all along. It would’ve saved us a lot of hurt and anger and regrets, but then again, I figure it’s something I had to get through, like the trials and errors of your childhood. 

Brendon’s making the noises I love, the low moans he keeps strangled in the back of his throat as he rocks against me. He has no reason to be quiet, there’s no one else in the house but the dogs, but it’s a habit he’s picked up over the years of being stuck on a tour bus with two other guys that he still hasn’t quite shook.

I run my hands along his hips, sliding up the curve of his waist before coming to circle around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s off-centered and messy with Brendon on top, but my cock manages to jerk inside of him as he pushes his tongue inside my mouth. There’s always been a power struggle between the two of us, both in a constant fight for control. It used to lead to a lot of intense but aggravating sex, but over the years we’ve more or less learned to compromise. 

I buck against him, causing Brendon to roll his head back and moan without constraint this time. Fingers at his hip, I mumble breathily, “Switch now?” 

He nods, allowing me to grab a hold of him and flip us over without pulling out - a trick I mastered after many of years of persistent practice and determination. Now that Brendon is no longer a hormone-riddled teenager that could go for hours without showing even the slightest bit of strain, he has the tendency to put all his energy into the beginning of sex, draining himself out by the end. It works for us though, because it gives me control without having to fight for it. 

Tightening Brendon’s legs around my waist, I push in until I can’t go any further. “Mmph, Ry,” he mumbles, cheeks pink and eyes black. Years later, and I’m still amazed by how gorgeous he is. 

Brendon rests a hand on my face, stroking along my jaw, and he leans up for another kiss, deep but gentle. I can feel myself begin to wear thin, the release building in my gut, and I’ve learned enough signs over the years to know Brendon is too. Sometimes, I can tell he’s close before even he can.

He comes first, tightening his fingers around my neck, digging into the flesh while he curses into my mouth. I let go a moment later, filling him, and push my tongue into his. Once I pull out, I drop onto the mattress next to him and press my head against his beating chest, feeling boneless. Eyes slipping shut, I count every steady beat as if it were my own.

Brendon cards a hand through my hair, smoothing out the matted locks before sliding it down my chest and taking a hold of mine. He ghosts a finger over each of my knuckles, rubbing along the skin, and I yawn against his collar. Pausing on one, he wraps his own fingers around it, circling loosely. “Goodnight,” he murmurs into my hair.

“Night, B.”

It’s not until I begin to drift off that I realize it was my ring finger he was holding.

*

There are aisles upon aisles of display cases and glass shelves, all lined together, and filled with more rings than I can handle. Different shapes and styles and colors and sizes, and suddenly I wish I had brought Spencer along with me, after all.

The ring I had stolen from the jewellery drawer inside our closet - made up of fan-made bracelets, mostly - is from high school, and I’m hoping it’s good enough. Brendon hasn’t grown much since he was eighteen, anyway. 

I’m not broke; I’m still getting royalties from the two albums I made with Panic, and a minimal flow of cash from The Young Veins, but I don’t have a third and fourth successful album under my belt like Brendon does. While Brendon continually insists that it doesn’t matter, it’s not a question who’s bringing home most of the money to support our three-story house complete with a swimming pool and a top-knotch recording studio. And, well, I’ve always been too proud to rely on someone else to support me. Since Panic has been on hiatus ever since Haley and Spencer got married last Spring, I was sick of living off Brendon, and did the first thing I could think of: beg a job off Pete. It’s not much, just a few A&R jobs every once and awhile, and that one time he conned me into babysitting, but it’s something, at least. 

The point is, this is Brendon, and I’m not going to settle for second best. He’s always been one for extravagance, subtle or not, and I’m going to make sure he gets it, even if I spend all my money in the process. I can always beg more jobs off Pete, and it looks like I may need the experience with kids, after all. 

I spend almost two hours before finally settling on one. It’s beautiful; a thin, white eighteen karat gold band with a small diamond embedded in the center. Even as the woman swipes my credit card, thousands of dollars spent in a matter of seconds, I’m still wondering if it’s good enough. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she says, flashing a bleached white grin, “he’ll love it. He’s one lucky man.” 

I flip the small, velvet box open and closed in my hand, the gold catching the department store light above. I look at it, butterflies dancing in my stomach, and say, “I hope so.”

*

When I show Spencer the ring, he laughs. 

“What, you asshole?” I demand, gut sinking as I shove the box back into my pocket. “Is it ugly? Do you think he won’t like it?” 

Spencer shakes his head, taking a deep breath as his laughter dies down. It’s quiet at his house, Haley out for lunch with her friend before she gets so huge she can’t move. I’m grateful because the last thing I need is her overhearing. Not that I think she’d tell Brendon, except. Okay, she probably would. I know how those two work. “No. No, he’ll love it.” 

“Then what’s so fucking funny?”

“It’s just you, Ryan, proposing.” He swallows back a laugh. “The guy who couldn’t even say ‘I love you’ for six years.”

My cheeks heat. “Shut - ”

“Oh shit, I wish I could see this,” he goes on, interrupting me as he slides his feet onto the couch, tucking them underneath himself. “He’s not going to see this coming at all. He’ll probably think you’re playing a cruel joke on him.” 

“Come on,” I defend. “It’s not that far-fetched that I’d propose.” 

“It kind of is.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right. 

When I was seventeen I vowed to myself I would never get married or have children. I’d look at my dad, thinking I’d turn out just like him. I’m sure Spencer was just as convinced as me that I’d never get married; that the only chance I’d ever have at a kid would be accidentally knocking up some girl after being drunk and careless. Now it’s here and it’s real, and I’ve got an engagement ring in my pocket to prove it. 

I already hurt Brendon once, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did it again. 

“How are you going to do it?”

I blink. I had been so caught up with this whole ring ordeal that the thought of actually proposing hadn’t occurred to me yet.

“Do you have any ideas?”

I shake my head. I’d seen a commercial where a guy stuck the ring in the fortune cookie, and I thought that was pretty cool. Although, Brendon had seen it too, and I somehow suspect that he wouldn’t be so appreciative over a recycled proposal idea from an advertisement for salad dressing. 

Spencer groans, as if pained, and I fold my arms over my chest, defensive. “Sorry we’re not all oozing with romantic gestures.” Spencer had perfectly planned out six proposal scenarios before finally sticking with Proposal Option #2. It involved sprinkling rose petals from the bed all the way to their deck overlooking the water, where a gourmet breakfast sat and Spencer on one knee, holding a rock that could probably be seen from space. Even if Haley had wanted to say no, Spencer made it pretty impossible to refuse.

However, I’m not Spencer. I think I might’ve had the beginning of a romantic thought once, but it died before it got anywhere. 

Spencer rolls his eyes, and says, “You can use one of mine.”

“Brendon knows all of them,” I point out.

“Not all.”

I look at him unsurely, contemplating. “I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t you think he’ll put two and two together, and realize it was you who came up with it? Isn’t that kind of tacky?”

“Ryan,” Spencer deadpans. “It’s either you take my idea, or you propose to him over pizza and beer. See how tacky he thinks it is then.” 

I turn to him, and scowl. The sad thing is, is that he’s right. “Fine, whatever.” I groan in defeat. 

Spencer grins, suddenly sprouting up off the couch. I shoot him a questioning glance as he heads out of his living room, towards the spiraling stairs leading to the third floor. “I’m getting my binder,” he explains easily, like it’s completely normal for an almost thirty year-old man to be cataloguing romantic gestures inside a three-ringed binder.

My best friend is fucking weird.

*

It takes two days to plan out the details, and another five for me to get up the courage to go through with it. There’s been a permanent set of butterflies hanging around in the bottom of my gut for over a week now, ever since I bought the ring, and they’re not showing sign of leaving anytime soon. I haven’t been this nervous around Brendon since I was seventeen.

On Sunday evening, once Brendon disappears into the studio, I sneak into the kitchen to prepare. My romantic meal consists of peanut butter and jam sandwiches, grapes and fudge brownies, that I pack into a picnic basket Brendon had bought earlier this year. It had been another compulsive buy of his, one that we had never gotten around to using and thought we never would. 

On the beach I lay out a blanket, leaving another in case it gets chilly. The sun is beginning to lower, moving behind a thin layer of clouds, and in my mind, Spencer’s voice is screaming, make sure you propose at sunset. Sunset, Ryan!

When I make it to the studio, Brendon is fiddling with controls, oversized headphones on his ears. I slide up behind him, smoothing my palms over his shoulders and he lets out a yelp in surprise, yanking the headphones from his ears. I laugh, and bend down to wrap my arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “What are you doing?” I ask next to his ear.

“Just messing around.” He shrugs, and then gives me a sidelong glance. “What are you doing?” 

“Are you hungry?” 

“I guess so. Why?” he asks. “Did you want to order pizza?”

I duck my face into his neck, smiling against his skin. Suddenly, I feel shy and bashful and ridiculous. I feel like Spencer. “I was actually thinking we could maybe have like, a picnic,” I mumble. 

“A picnic?” Brendon echoes, incredulous. “Seriously?” 

“Mm. Yeah.” I lift myself from Brendon’s shoulders, and stand up straight, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels. “I already got it ready, and put a blanket out on the beach, so.” I shrug, motioning my arm loosely towards the door. 

Brendon looks at me, a slightly bemused expression on his face, before he’s breaking out into a grin. “Okay,” he says, excitedly, shooting up from his seat. He’s already beaming, eyes wide and feet jittery. He doesn’t even know the half of it yet. Spencer was right, he’s not going to believe it. 

We leave the dogs inside, much to their disappointment as they claw and whine at the back door after us. I carry the basket down to the beach as Brendon bounces ahead of me, feet bare and jeans rolled up mid-calf. He looks beautiful like this, dressed casual in a black t-shirt and hair tousled, blowing in the salty air. The sun is just beginning to set, and the array of colours look stunning against his face. I wasn’t sure it was possible, but I feel like I’m falling even more in love with him. 

I can still feel the butterflies, but there’s something in it that puts me at ease. Suddenly, the ring in my pocket doesn’t feel quite so terrifying. 

“Ryan Ross,” Brendon says, leaning over to kiss me once I sit next to him on the blanket, “sunset? Picnic on the beach? Should I be worried?” 

I smile against his mouth, kissing him again, and then once more. “No,” I murmur, squeezing his waist, “I don’t think so.” 

Brendon’s mouth lingers against mine a moment longer, eyes twinkling before he pulls apart. “So,” he grins, eyes sweeping over the picnic basket, “what did you pack?” 

I take out the sandwiches, feeling mildly embarrassed as I hand one to Brendon. Spencer made Haley a gourmet breakfast. I made Brendon two pieces of bread with peanut butter and jam spread on it. “It’s not much. Just peanut butter and jam.” 

He laughs, unwrapping his from the saran wrap. “I love you,” he says fondly, reaching over to brush some loose curls from my face. 

I laugh, ducking my head. The ring is lying loose in my pocket, since I figured a giant box poking out of my pocket might ruin the element of surprise. Plus, there’s something a little cheesy about getting on one knee and opening a velvet box. But, maybe that’s my lack of romanticism.

By the time we finish our sandwiches, Brendon leaning over every few bites to exchange PB&J kisses, the sun is already half set, the golden circle peaking out from the water. I know that if I want Brendon to actually be able to see the ring, I have to do it now. 

Oh god, I have to propose now. 

On second thought, maybe I can postpone this whole proposal thing. Think it over some more, save it for a different day, use yet another of Spencer’s long list of options. Maybe I don’t even have to propose. It’s not like we have to get married. Sure, Brendon might be a little upset, but he’ll get over it, right? 

“I knew I should’ve been worried,” Brendon says, interrupting my internal battle.

I turn to him, and blink. 

“You look like you’re going to puke.” He looks me over calculatingly, and then nibbles on his bottom lip, nervous. “What is it? You didn’t - ” He swallows, eyes falling as he meekly asks, “You didn’t cheat on me, did you?” 

“What? No! Brendon.” I send him a heavy look, one that resembles a mother to her misbehaving child. I feel hurt that he’d even ask that. I thought we had come a long way from there. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, cheeks burning red. “Sorry. I didn’t - I’m sorry. I just -” He shakes his head, looking up at me with round, apologetic eyes. “You’re freaking me out.”

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and count three waves crashing against the shore. My heart is pounding wildly against my ribcage, but I have no choice anymore. I push away any bad thoughts. I push away my dad. He’s been gone for years now, isn’t it about time he stops controlling my life?

With one final breath I reach inside my pocket, and pull out the band. Brendon’s still looking at me, appearing even more worried as I turn to face him. “Ry - ” His eyes drop down to my hand, bewildered. 

“Brendon,” I say, voice coming out too high and too squeaky despite my efforts to keep calm. This is it, there’s no turning back. As soon as I open my palm, say those four words, that’s it. I close my eyes, count to two, and when I open my eyes again I blurt out in one breath, ring revealed, “Will you marry me?” There’s only a sliver of sun left, leaving only the dimmest light cast over us, and I hope it hides how red my face is. 

Brendon stares down at the ring, then back at me, then the ring again, mouth open and closing like a fish out of water. It drags on for hours it seems, Brendon too shocked to speak, when finally he splutters, “You’re kidding, right?”

At least I knew this was going to happen.

“No,” I reply, evenly. 

“You’re honest to god proposing to me right now?” 

I swallow. “Yes.”

“You’re asking me to marry you?” he clarifies. 

“That is what I said,” I reply, jaw set, feeling annoyance set in my gut. Even though there was never any question that Brendon would say yes, there’s something about being in the moment, waiting for the answer with a ring in my hand, that is the most nerve-wracking, most terrifying experience I’ve ever been put through in my life. 

“Oh my god.” Slapping a hand over his mouth, Brendon stares at me with exceedingly large eyes, tears brimming. “Oh my god. You’re being serious.”

I’m not sure what else to say, so I sit there and blink stupidly, waiting for it to sink in. After a few more oh my god’s from Brendon, I clear my throat, and say, “So, uh. You really know how to leave a guy hanging here.”

Brendon forehead wrinkles, as if confused to what I’m referring to before it occurs to him and he launches himself on me, wrapping his arms around my neck. “Of fucking course I’ll marry you. Oh my god.” He pulls back to kiss me, and kiss me, and kiss me again, until I’m almost entirely sure that I’ll never take a breath again. I’m not that sure I mind. “As fucking if,” he mumbles between brushes of our lips. “Oh my god.”

I grin against his mouth, and I feel - happy? Delirious? Giddy? Absolutely fantastic? “Um,” I start, pulling back slightly, “are you going to let me put the ring on you, or…?”

“Right. Right.” Brendon sits back on his haunches, and holds out his left hand. Between him bouncing and me shaking, I’m sure we look like a bunch of vibrating, grinning idiots. 

Taking a hold of his hand, I carefully slide the ring onto his finger, feeling a rush of relief when it goes on smoothly. Just like that, he’s no longer my boyfriend. He’s my fiancé. If there’s a single word in the English vocabulary to describe how I feel, I don’t know it. 

“We’re engaged,” I state, feeling a little stupid. 

Brendon grins, leaning forward to kiss me warm and deliberate. He curls his fingers around mine, and says, “I know.” 

*

Brendon doesn’t waste any time. By the time I wake up in the morning he’s already hired a wedding planner, and purchased an entire library worth of wedding magazines that cover the entire surface of the dining room table in front of Haley and him. It’s barely noon and there’s already talk of vows and flower arrangements and center pieces. 

Maybe it’s my lack of brain capacity to process one large event at a time, but besides the brief acknowledgment that there would eventually be a wedding, I’ve been far too preoccupied by trying to fight off the anxiety of proposing to consider it much further. 

“Good morning, my gorgeous fiancé.” Brendon winks over a spread of china patterns. 

Considering half my brain is still sound asleep in our bed upstairs, there’s not much else I can do but stare down at the glossy pages in awe. I probably shouldn’t be surprised, but I am anyway. I was hoping we’d spend the day in bed today, just sleeping and fucking - and fucking and sleeping. It’s been awhile since we’ve done that, and what a better day to than the first day of our engagement? Unfortunately, it’s becoming quite apparent that it’s not going to be the case. 

“Morning,” I smile, a nervous edge to it that I hopes comes off as fatigue. I had thought the scary part was over now, but the butterflies are still there and just as lively as ever. 

But, Brendon loves me. He loves me enough to marry me, and there’s something in that soothes me, filling me with pride and joy and everything that comes with it. For the longest time I never thought I’d get that, and from someone like Brendon.

Funny how your life can turn into something you never once expected. 

“Morning, Haley,” I say, and bend down to peck Brendon a kiss, my eye catching the ring as I pull away. It’s going to be a wedding ring some day, and I’m surprised to see that there’s a certain comfort in that.

“Hey, Ryan. Congrats. I didn’t think you had it in you,” she teases. 

“I didn’t either,” I admit, giving Brendon’s shoulder a squeeze before heading into the kitchen. He catch him roll his eyes, but there’s a smile to it.

“Neither did I,” he says. “He’s a changed man.”

There’s coffee already made in the pot, and I pour myself a cup before reheating it in the microwave. I keep it black and return to the dining room, pulling up a seat next to Brendon where they’re now discussing the prospect of a beach wedding. This is way too much to take in first thing in the morning. 

“We need to get you a ring,” Brendon says after a moment, squeezing onto my knee in acknowledgement. “It’s only fair.”

I didn’t even think about that. Apparently, I didn’t think about much at all. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Can I pick it out?”

“Yeah.” I gulp down a mouthful of coffee, and Brendon grins, kissing the side of my mouth. 

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brendon this excited for as long as I’ve known him. I feel slightly pleased knowing it’s all because of me. 

“Were you thinking a traditional wedding?” Haley asks from across the table, flipping through a catalogue of bridesmaid dresses. “Like groomsmen and bridesmaids?” She looks up at us, batting her eyelashes. “I mean, after all, you were both in my wedding.”

“Yeah, as Spencer’s groomsmen,” Brendon points out.

She gives a flick of her wrist. “Whatever. That’s irrelevant.”

Brendon laughs. “I don’t know,” he says, and looks at me questioningly like he actually expects some input. I shrug, burying myself in my cup. “I guess we’ll see.”

I last ten minutes before excusing myself, and sit out on the deck. There’s a pack of surfers out, their stuff scattered along the sand where Brendon and I were sitting the night before. From the looks of it, they’re not very good, spending more time falling into the water than actually riding it, and it reminds me of myself. Brendon and Spencer were always more skilled when it came to the sport, spending hours out on the water until Haley got pregnant and Brendon started spending more time in the studio. Some mornings I’ll still wake up to an empty bed, and look out the window to see Brendon carving through the waves.

I fiddle with the ashtray in front of me, the remnants of a joint Brendon and I shared the only inhabitant. I listen to the sound of their laughter from inside, and dial Spencer’s number.

*

The ring feels weird – heavy and smooth on my finger. It’s not the first time I’ve worn a ring, but it’s the first time it’s meant something. 

Brendon slides our palms together, his smaller than mine, but the bands line together perfectly. Smiling, he kisses me, fingers knotting.

It means something.

*

Haley goes into labour at four in the morning the following Friday, two weeks before her due date. I’ve barely got the phone to my ear before Brendon’s jumping out of bed, pulling on his clothes and throwing mine at me. 

The entire ride to the hospital, awake on only a couple hours of sleep and three mugs of chugged coffee, all I can think is, oh my god, Spencer’s going to be a dad. Fuck, Spencer’s going to be a dad. The five year-old kid I used to play knock-knock-ginger and talk about kissing girls with is going to have a kid himself.

“I wonder what she’s going to look like,” Brendon muses from the driver’s seat. You’d never guess he’s running on the same amount of hours as me. He can be a pure mutant that way. “What do you think they’ll name her?” 

“I don’t know.”

“When I have a kid I want it to be a surprise. You know, whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

When. I swallow, and don’t comment. Brendon would throw this at me at ass o’clock in the morning, and brush it off as a casual, nothing statement. 

At the hospital, we’re not able to see Haley, and Brendon seems shocked over this, like he was expecting to be there for every step of the delivery. “You do realize,” I say, falling back on the waiting room chair, “that it’ll probably be hours before she actually gives birth, right? This shit can take like, twenty four hours.”

Brendon shrugs, unfazed. 

The waiting room is empty for this time of hour, all except for an older couple sitting on the other end, most likely expecting a grandchild. Hospital’s still give me that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, churning and squeezing, the anxiety wondering if this will be the last time. If this time the doctor will come out, head hung low, and tell me that my dad took it one step too far. Brendon slips an arm around my waist, head falling on my shoulder, and I’m not sure if he knows what’s running through my mind, but it soothes me, any way. This isn’t my dad a room away, one too many drinks inside him; this is Spencer and Haley, and their baby waiting to be born. 

A half an hour after arriving, with me practically passed out on the chair, Spencer comes out into the waiting room. He’s shaking, bouncing on the balls of his feet with wide eyes, a manic grin and messy hair. He looks delirious, to say the least. “You’re here,” he says. “Oh my god, you guys. I’m going to be a dad. A fucking dad.”

Brendon bounces up from his seat, and wraps Spencer into a hug. “I’m going to be an uncle!” he chirps excitedly, making Spencer laugh.

I peel myself from the chair, holding the now cool cup of coffee we had picked up along the way and hold it out for Spencer to take. “Coffee?” 

His eyes widen significantly, practically watering from the mouth as he takes it, chugging back half of it in one gulp. “Thank you. I love you guys.” He looks at me almost expectantly, and I roll my eyes, pulling him in for my own hug. 

Burying myself into his neck, I mumble, “Congrats, man.” 

“Thanks,” he returns in a murmur, and I can hear the grin.

Giving him a firm pat on the back, I pull away and suggest, “Shouldn’t you like, I don’t know, be in the room with your expecting wife, right now?”

“Haley’s mom is in there right now. There’s only one person at a time allowed in,” he explains. “You guys didn’t have to come, you know. The doctors said it’ll probably be awhile. They said that’s usually how it is with your firstborn.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him.” I roll my eyes, jerking a thumb in Brendon’s direction. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“Whatever,” he says, stubborn. “I want to be here.”

Spencer spends another ten minutes with us, conversation not stretching much further than, oh my god, oh my god, I’m going to be a dad. I’m just trying to stay awake and conjure up enough energy to show at least some enthusiasm for my best friend. I am excited for him, after all, but Brendon and I had ourselves a few rounds of intense sex last night, lasting us until at least one in the morning, and it seems almost impossible to show much emotion at all. 

Two hours later I’m awoken from my half-sleep to Spencer returning, telling us that not much progress has been made and that, no, really, you should just go home and sleep. It’ll be a few hours yet. After twenty more minutes of persuasion from me, Brendon’s reluctantly agreeing, his own eyelids beginning to droop. 

“Just a few hours though,” he says, trailing down the hall behind me. “And I swear to God, Ryan, if she has her while we’re gone - ”

“She won’t,” I insist, pressing the down button for the elevator. 

Brendon eyes me warily, like he’s not sure whether to believe me or not. A moment later the elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, looking at Brendon expectantly. 

He sighs in defeat, and steps in behind me.

*

“She’s here! She’s here!” Spencer cries the second I click on my phone, brain still hazy with sleep. “She’s beautiful, and she’s here!”

I sit up, alarmed, just as Brendon begins to stir next to me. “What? What do you mean? You said it’d be awhile.”

“It has been.”

I glance at the alarm clock sitting on our nightstand, and sure enough, it reads five after one. If I had known we would’ve slept that long, I would’ve set it. “Shit,” I curse as Brendon’s eyes slide open. “Okay, we’ll be right there.”

Brendon’s already up before I even have a chance to end the call. He pulls a hoody on, jaw clenched as he says, “We missed it, didn’t we?” 

I toss the phone onto the bed, and scramble up after him. “Yeah, but Spencer said it doesn’t matter anyway, because they’re not letting anyone see her yet.” 

Brendon rolls his eyes, heading towards the door. “Figures,” he mutters, not impressed. “I’ll be in the car.” 

I sigh, and pull on my clothes before racing after him. 

*

Arianna Haley Smith is six pounds and three ounces. Born on the twelfth of August, she’s a healthy baby girl with pink skin and tiny fluffs of golden blonde hair on her head. 

Brendon sits on the end of the hospital bed, the tiny bundle wrapped in his arms as he coos and beams at her, telling her she’s the most cutest, most best baby he’s ever seen. Haley smiles from where she’s propped against the pillows. There are purple bags underneath her eyes, but she still has that new mother glow to her, regardless. 

I watch from the doorway as Brendon runs a hand through her thin, threads of hair. I’ve always known he loves kids. The way he spends half the family get-togethers playing games with the kids, and how our entire fridge is covered in picture after picture of his thousands of nieces and nephews. There’s never been a doubt in my mind that Brendon would make an excellent father. 

Spencer comes up from behind me, two Styrofoam cups in both hands. He watches over my shoulder at Brendon cuddling and talking to his daughter like she’s his own, and I know what he’s thinking before he even opens his mouth. “You know what you need to do,” he says softly into my ear. 

I look down at the tiled floor, and swallow. I do, but. But I’m just not sure if I can do that for him, and this visit to the hospital is reminding me exactly why. Brendon would probably end up thanking me in the long run, anyway. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Spencer says, “and stop. You’re not him.”

I lift my eyes to look at him, slightly startled by the accusation, and he stares back at me, evenly. He caught me, as he always does, and I have nothing to say, cheeks heating. 

He says, “Stop punishing yourself for what he did,” and pushes past me into the room. He sits in the chair next to the bed, and Haley takes the second cup of coffee graciously. 

I look at him, and then Brendon with Arianna. Sometimes, I wish he wasn’t always right. 

*

All wedding planning goes on hiatus for a week, while Brendon spends every waking moment at Spencer’s and Haley’s. I’m almost positive it’s pity that keeps them from telling him to stop coddling their newborn and go home. 

Every night, I have to practically force Brendon from their home while he kicks and pouts like a child, whining, “Just five more minutes.”

Every night, Spencer will catch my gaze, the same words from the hospital flashing through his eyes. [You know what you have to do. You’re not him. Stop punishing yourself. Except what Spencer doesn’t get is that it’s not that simple. Spencer, with his loving mother and protective father. The picket fence and the cookie-cutter childhood. What Spencer doesn’t get is that life isn’t that easy for all of us. 

I’ve already proposed, something I told myself I’d never do. Isn’t that enough?

In bed later that night, Brendon says, “In the book that Haley gave me it says that before you get married you have to discuss things like your future goals and whether you want kids. It says waiting until marriage to find out your on different pages is the worst mistake you can make.” 

He says, “Maybe it’s something we should think about.”

Rolling onto his side, the long jagged line of his spine facing me, he says, “Goodnight, Ry.”

It’s not that simple, but maybe it has to be.

*

“You know who loves you the most in the whole entire world?” Brendon gushes down at Arianna, wrapped up snugly on his folded legs. A line of drool runs down from her upper lip, and she curls her tiny hand around one of Brendon’s fingers. 

“Her parents?” Spencer calls from the kitchen. 

“No,” Brendon whispers, bending down to kiss her forehead. “I do.”

Resting my chin against his shoulder, I reach over, taking her tiny foot into my hand. It’s barely half the size of my palm. She’s been in this world for close to three weeks now, and yet I’m still in awe over how something can be so tiny. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and say, as softly as I can, “Maybe we should have one of these.”

Brendon turns to face me, eyes wide and imploring. “Have what?” 

I bury my face into his neck, his skin cool against my burning cheeks. “You know,” I murmur, “a baby.” There’s still a doubt in my mind whether this is a good idea or not, even after weeks of internal questioning, but I realized that if this is what Brendon wants than I have to make it. It’s not going to magically go away if I ignore it for long enough, just like Brendon isn’t going to stop wanting it. 

Brendon says nothing at first, and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my heart palpitate throughout my bones. Below us, Arianna makes a gurgling sound from inside her throat.

With his free hand, Brendon lifts my chin and surges forward, kissing me with such force that it nearly knocks me over. That’s more than enough of an answer for me. “Are you serious?” he asks quietly, pulling back to meet my eyes.

“Yeah,” I manage, voice caught in my throat. 

He says nothing, the same expression on his face from when I proposed, eyes lining with tears. Moving to cup the back of my neck, he pulls me in once more, forehead resting against mine. Maybe it’s not the best idea, but if it can make Brendon this happy, it just might be enough. 

“Why are you doing all of this?” he whispers, imploring, warm eyes blinking back at me.

“Because it makes you happy.” 

“What happened to you, Ryan Ross?” He kisses me, laugh muffled against my lips. “You’re growing up.”

“I guess I am.”

He smiles, lips brushing. I’ve experienced an array of Brendon kisses over the years; happy, sad, turned-on, angry. I don’t think even the make-up kisses after a year apart amount to this. I should propose and offer him babies more often. 

“How about you not do that in front of my poor, innocent daughter?” Spencer accuses, entering the living room with a bowl of chips in one hand and bottle juggled in the other. “She’s barely a month old, I don’t need her permanently scarred by watching you two swap spit.” 

The kiss comes to a stop, but Brendon lingers, smiling against my lips. When he pulls away, he looks at Spencer, batting his eyelashes in innocence. “I guess we can scar our own, huh?” 

Spencer blinks, bewildered, and looks from him to me. I stare back, trying to appear aloof, even though the knotting inside my stomach is enough to make me feel nauseous. 

He looks back to Brendon, and says, “Seriously?”

Brendon grins. “Seriously.” He sneaks a look at me, raising a low eyebrow as if searching for further confirmation. 

“Yup,” I reply, weakly. “What he said.”

Spencer grins, placing the chips on the table and makes grabby hands for Arianna. “Shit,” he whistles as Brendon takes the hint and scoops her from his lap surprisingly easy, depositing her into Spencer’s outstretched arms. He looks at me, shocked, like he hasn’t been pressuring me into this for the past month, and says, “I think I like this Ryan.”

I pull my I’m-not-amused face, and Brendon grins, leaning into my shoulder. “Me too. We should keep him.” 

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” he agrees. Cradling Arianna on his lap, he holds the bottle towards her which she hungrily takes between her pink lips. It’s still surreal seeing Spencer like this; a dad to this tiny, little creature. I can remember when Spencer was a kid himself, scraping his knee from failed skateboard tricks and blowing up power boxes with homemade bombs. This is going to be me someday, with my own little creature with tiny toes and fingers and a head full of fluffy hair. One that poops and cries and spits up. 

One that is going to grow up and resent me just like I did to my own father.

Brendon looks at me, and grins, leaning in for another kiss.

I gulp, and think, what have I gotten myself into? 

* 

The second the front door shuts behind us, Brendon says, “We should call the agency tomorrow. It can take a really long time, and I’d like to have the baby by the time I’m thirty.” He’s still beaming, so much he’s practically glowing, and I wonder how much he’d hate me if I told him I had already changed my mind?

He tugs on my t-shirt, pulling me into him. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly doing all of this,” he murmurs into my jaw, “but - thanks.” He tilts his head up, catching my bottom lip between his. “Thank you. I’ve wanted this for so long.” 

I swallow, nodding briefly. Maybe I’ll just wait to tell him. 

It’s still dark inside our house, neither one of us bothering to switch on the light, and the dogs dance around our feet, yapping and jumping at our legs. Brendon slips a hand up my shirt, fingers tickling the skin around my bellybutton. “I love you,” he whispers as my back hit’s the wall. “I love you, and I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather do this with.” 

The why dances at my tongue, but I swallow it back before it has a chance to escape. I nod against his mouth instead, kissing him harder. All I want to do is enjoy these kisses while they last. They’ll most likely be in very short supply once I tell him I can’t actually go through with this. 

Cupping onto my jaw, he pushes his tongue mouth, warm and dirty. He re-hooks his fingers into my belt loops and begins to tug me towards the staircase, smiling against my lips. “Well, I hear celibacy is all the rage with parents,” he teases, feet hitting the back of the stairs, “so we might as well get as much in as we can now, huh?” 

I laugh, cock jumping inside my jeans. It’s amazing that he can make me feel like a teenager all over again. I slip my hands up the front of his shirt, pulling it up, and groan, “Yes, please.”

Smiling, he pulls away and races me up the stairs. 

*

The next day, while Brendon spends his third consecutive hour on the phone with baby agency after baby agency, I sneak out to the back porch to call Jon.

I feel nervous doing so, which is almost ridiculous to me, because, after all, the man had been one of my best friends. However, I don’t think either one of us could deny that things had gotten weird between us ever since Brendon and I had gotten back together.

When the band split, it was no question that they no longer got along. The last few months consisted of what seemed like an immature rivalry between high school cliques; Brendon and Spencer, and Jon and me. We’d separate ourselves on opposite ends of the bus, only speak to each other when forced with extra ice added, and whisper mean, biting things behind each other’s back before one day in Africa it blew up, and that was that. While I had eventually mended things with Spencer and Brendon, the same thing never quite happened with Jon. He acted like he didn’t care, that he understood, but things were never the same between us. We kept in touch with phone calls and hollow promises to visit each other, ones that we never quite met until his wedding.

When we had gotten the invitation in the mail two winters back, addressed to Ryan Ross plus one guest, Brendon took one look at it, plastered on a fake smile, and said, “Send him my best regards.” Even Spencer was invited, but he sent him his deepest condolences for not being able to attend, and spent the weekend in Disneyland with Brendon and Haley instead. So, I had flown out to Chicago alone, and when I gave Jon Brendon’s regards, he did no more than send me the same fake smile Brendon had and promptly changed the subject. For the rest of the visit, whenever he was brought up in conversation, things turned awkward, sour almost, and in the end, I flew home feeling more disappointed than anything. 

Now I can only imagine what he’s going to say when I inform him that I’m not only getting married to Brendon, but also having a fucking kid with him too. 

He picks up on the third ring, greeting me with a warm, overly-familiar rumble of his voice. No matter how long it’s been it still brings me the same comfort; reminding me that even after it all, even after months of not talking, he’ll always be a friend of mine. “Hey, Ross! How’s it going, bud?”

“Good, Great.” I take a deep breath. It’s better I get this over with now, or I never will. “So, look, I have some news.” 

“Yeah?”

I bite onto my lip, tightening my grip on the railing. Down on the shore, two kids are playing, splashing around in the water and laughing. Further back on the beach, the parents sit, watching while spread out on towels. “I - ” I pause, then rephrase, “Well, I just wanted you to know that I, um. Well, I’m getting married.” 

“Married?” he repeats in disbelief. “To who?” 

“Jon. Shit.” I huff in frustration, running my hand across my forehead. This might be even more painful than I anticipated. “To Brendon.”

My reply comes in the form of silence on the other line for a minute, maybe two. I’m fairly positive he was expecting us to break up, just like we had the first time. I couldn’t really blame him at the time, because even Spencer had his apprehensions. It wasn’t the first time we had gotten back together, and then together again and once more.

Finally, after minutes of clenching and unclenching my fist from the metal rail, he says, “Oh.” Then, “Wow. Shit, man. That’s big.”

“Yeah,” I agree, forcing a nervous laugh. 

“Well, uh. Congrats.”

“Thank you.” There’s another pause, awkward and thick even with the miles between us, and I say, “I’d like it if you came.” 

“Oh. Uh. You sure Brendon would like that?” 

I hadn’t been so sure myself. When I asked him this morning, he looked hesitant, and for a minute there I was sure he was going to say no, but then he was shrugging and smiling as he said, “I don’t care who comes. All that matters is that I’m getting married to you.” I had rolled my eyes and called him cheesy, before ducking my and smiling like an idiot to myself. I didn’t tell him I actually felt the same. 

“He’s fine with it.”

“Okay,” he drags out, slowly, like he’s not so sure he wants to get himself into this. It’s a step up from him laughing in my face like I had expected, at least. “Well, when is it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I reply, vaguely recalling Brendon saying something about a beach wedding. “Probably next the summer.” 

“Okay, well - ” 

“We’re also adopting a kid,” I blurt out without a second thought.

The silence that drags between us is even longer this time, and I close my eyes, listening to Brendon chat away through the screen door. I hear fiancé, and married, and family. 

“What?” 

“You know, like. From an agency,” I say, stupidly. 

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Yeah, I got it.”

I don’t know what else to say, so I settle on saying nothing at all. I bet he’s recalling one of our drunken nights spent together, where I rambled about how I’d never have a kid, fucking them up even more than my dad did me. I’m still confused myself as to how I ended up that guy, to where I am now, with my fiancé on the phone with an adoption agency. 

Eventually, after a few minutes, Jon’s the one to break the silence with, “Well, I can’t say I expected this.”

“Neither did I,” I admit.

“So, when did you decide all of this?” 

“Um.” I fiddle with my ring on my finger, the early afternoon sunlight reflecting off the gold. “Pretty recently. It’s been a few months in the making.”

“Well, congratulations,” he says once again. “I’m sure you’ll love it.” I can’t quite tell whether he means it or not, but I’m not sure that I really want to know. 

We make idle chat between us for awhile, but I can tell there’s a strain as we force out conversation, where I pretend I didn’t drop this bomb on him. 

I hear the screen door shut behind me while Jon’s telling me about his new cat, Oscar. A warm body presses against me a moment later, arms wrapping around my chest and a head against my back. Brendon’s warm breath soaks through my shirt, and into my skin.

I cut the conversation off with Jon, telling him I have to help with lunch, and without saying it, I can tell he’s relieved. It’s still strange to me how far our lives have become when they once used to be so intertwined. 

Once I pocket my phone, Brendon slides his hand up my arm, and rests it against mine, finger brushing against my ring. “So, how’d he take it?” he asks into my ear. 

“Okay,” I reply, confused as to whether I’m lying or not.

He nods against my shoulder, and after a few moments of watching the kids play down the beach, he says, “We have an appointment to meet with an adoption agency tomorrow, as well as a few others this week, just so we can see what the best one out there is, you know? Just to be sure. And I emailed that couple we met in Hawaii that one time, you remember, Dane and Elie? With the two kids?“ I nod, and he continues, “Well, I asked them what agency they went with. Too bad that one was only in New York. But they told me they have friends out here who adopted, and gave me the agency name.” 

“Okay,” I manage, throat suddenly dry and head racing. I take a deep breath, and turn my head, lips brushing against his cheek. “So, we’re really doing this, huh?” 

“I think so,” he murmurs, a smile on his lips as they hover over mine. “We’re going to be dads.”

“Who would’ve thought.” I laugh, even though the both of us know it’s not far from the truth.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, mouth turned up against my jaw. “Who would’ve thought.”

*

While going around from agency to agency, I figured that choosing one was the hardest part of the entire process, that after all we’d have to do is sit back and wait for the phone to ring. It’s not until after that I find out just how wrong I was. 

The next couple of months are a blur of meetings, home visits, intrusive questioning, and paper after paper that I’m sure must’ve killed an entire rainforest. If I was nervous about this whole kid thing before, the constant hounding on my childhood and then my life as rockstar does not make me feel any more confidant on my parenting abilities. By the time it came to an end, even Brendon seemed exhausted and vaguely uneasy. 

Now, they told us, is our time to sit back and anxiously wait. Some couples can wait for months for even a phone call, years even. It’s not that either one of us expected to have a bouncing baby in our home in a matter of weeks, but when the agency told us it could take even longer for same-sex couples, Brendon’s disappointment wasn’t hard to miss.

He smiles afterward, and while he may have had no problem fooling others, I know it’s all wrong in the matter of moments. “It’s okay, you know. That it takes awhile.” He takes my hand from across the console, and gives it a squeeze. “It gives us a chance to get married, and like, settle into it for a bit, you know?”

“Yeah, exactly.” I agree, but my mind is still somewhere stuck between filling form after form, question after question. It had been the most draining ordeal that I have ever been through, and now that it’s finally over, all I really want to do is go home and sleep for the next twenty years. Somehow, I get the feeling this whole baby-thing would be much easier if one of us was a girl. Easier, and a whole lot more fun.

“You don’t really think it’ll take years, do you?” he asks. He bites onto his lip, a worried expression on his face like he’s not sure whether he wants to know the truth. 

I turn into our driveway, waiting a moment before replying. Brendon looks at me once we’ve parked, hope filled high in his eyes, waiting for reassurance. Eventually, I say, “I hope not,” and I’m surprised by my own honesty. 

* 

The last thing we expect is to get a call from the agency two weeks and three days later. 

“I have some great news,” our caseworker says through the speaker that Brendon and I are crowded around. “There’s a young woman here who looked over your profile, and is very interested in meeting with you.” 

Brendon’s hand flies out to my arm and squeezes, hard enough to stop blood flow. “Oh my god! Are you serious?” he cries, grinning madly. He looks happier than I can ever remember seeing him, and that alone causes my own grin to spread from ear to ear. 

“I am!” 

“Oh!” Brendon says, entire body vibrating. “This is awesome. Thank you. Oh my god.” He turns to look at me, teeth white and eyes shining. 

There’s even something stirring in my own insides that feels an awful lot like excitement. 

We make an appointment to meet with her the following Tuesday, and once we hang up, Brendon all but tackles me onto the couch. His hands fly to my shoulders, giving them a shake before he leans down to attack me with fervent kisses. “We’re going to be parents,” he chatters excitedly into my lips. “We’re going to have a baby. We’re going to be dads.” He beams into my lips, and says, “We’re going to be a family.”

I swallow, gut twisting. I can’t tell if it’s from my own excitement, or just nerves. Maybe both.

“Family,” I echo, and he grins, wide and breathtaking. 

*

“So, I invited my parents over this weekend.”

I look up from the television, shooting him a horrified look.

He sighs. “We have to tell them. I’ve already been putting it off for weeks. Months even.” He flicks his hand in the air, ring catching the light, and I know he’s right. We’ve already been engaged for two months and three days, and he hasn’t told anyone in his family. I, on the other hand, just don’t have anyone to tell. Then again, even if my father was alive, telling him I was dating a guy would be out of the question. And getting married to one? Well, there wouldn’t even be a point because I’d be dead by the time my wedding day rolled around, anyway. 

It’s not that Brendon’s parents don’t like me, it’s just that - well, okay, they don’t like me. Ever since we were teenagers, I was the bad influence with the tight pants, make-up and devil music. Goes without saying, they weren’t exactly thrilled when they found out that under bad influence, they could also add corrupted their son into liking men. If only they had opened their eyes wide enough to realize that their son was a flaming queer even before I came along. 

“It won’t be so bad,” Brendon insists, but I’m not sure who out of the two of us he’s trying to convince more. Curling up to my side, he strokes a hand through my hair. “They’re only coming in Friday evening, and they’ll be driving back Saturday night so they can go to church on Sunday. Plus, they’ll be happy I’m getting married. That I’ll actually give them grandkids.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what they were hoping for,” I add, dryly. Brendon’s face falls, shoulders slouchy, and I instantly wish I could take it back. When I said thick-headed idiot, I did mean myself. “No, I mean. You know what I mean.“ I wrap my arm around his waist, and lightly brush my mouth against his temple. “They kind of really hate me,” I murmur, nose against his skin.

“They don’t hate you,” he argues feebly. I shoot him a sceptical look, and he folds his arms over his chest, stubborn. “They don’t okay? They’re just - it’s just how they are, okay?”

I snort in disbelief, and say, turning back to the television, “I think they’d be a lot warmer to me if I was a Mormon woman.”

“Yeah, but they would also like me a lot more if I was a Mormon woman,” he points out. The sad thing is, he’s probably right. 

“I just don’t think they’re going to be happy about it,” I say after a moment. On screen, Pam’s water breaks in the car, and I blink, before promptly changing to the news. 

Brendon lets out another laugh as his hand finds its way back to my hair. It’s a nervous habit of his that I’ve picked up on over the years; instead of playing with his hair, he plays with mine. “It’ll be okay,” he says, tucking his knees into his chest. Against my arm, I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

“Are you sure?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. 

He nods, and then twirls a strand of hair hanging by my ear. A minute passes, and then he says, “You might want to get a haircut though.” 

*

Brendon spends the entire day Friday cleaning every last inch of the house. I help for the first half an hour, but then I put the salt and pepper shaker in the wrong cupboard and he tells me I’m making even more of a mess and to go to Spencer’s. I don’t protest. 

We take our rings off before his parents arrive, leaving them above the fridge where the dogs can’t get to them (“Knowing my parents, it’ll be the first thing they see, and I’d like to ease into it,” Brendon reasoned. Again, I wasn’t going to argue). 

Five minutes before they’re supposed to come, Brendon looks seconds away from vomiting all over the sautéed mushroom steak he spent hours on. I do the only thing I can think of, and run a comforting hand along his arm, murmuring, “It’ll be fine.” He sends me an appreciative smile, relaxing into my touch, even though he knows I don’t believe a word of it myself. 

They arrive at six on the dot, and Brendon greets them with hugs and a kiss on the cheek. I don’t know what else to do, so I settle with an awkward handshake. We all pretend that the smiles and ‘hello, nice to see you’s exchanged between us aren’t entirely fake. 

The meal Brendon made was a recipe from Spencer, and the evening mostly consists of talk between the three of them, myself only included after one of Brendon’s numerous attempts. Even then, it doesn’t last long before they’re turning back to Brendon and asking if he’s planning on getting a job, or if he’s talking to Brianne or Chrissy or Justine from church.

Near the end of the meal, his mother asks, “How is Sarah doing? Have you seen her lately?”

Brendon chokes over his scalloped potatoes, and I try not to do the same to my own. “Sarah? Like my ex, Sarah?”

She nods, unfazed.

Brendon stares back at her, perplexed, like he can’t believe she’d ask such a thing. The only thing I’m confused about is why he’s confused. I’m not even her son, and I would’ve bet money that she’d ask something like that. 

“Mom - what. No.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t talked to her in years.” 

“That’s too bad,” she replies, stabbing a piece of spinach with her fork. “She was a nice girl.”

“Mom.” 

“What?” She looks up at him, blankly, as if she doesn’t have a clue what she’s done wrong. Next to her, Brendon’s dad sits quietly, chewing on a piece of steak. 

Brendon shakes his head, and then proceeds to stare down at his empty plate, face pulled together into a tight frown. The dinner is going awful, exactly like I expected. I wonder if he’s changed his mind on telling them yet. We can get married and adopt a kid without them ever knowing, can’t we?

Suddenly, Brendon’s lifting himself from his plate, an expression on his face that doesn’t do a whole lot more than worry me. Reaching towards me, he takes a hold of my hand over the table, in perfect view of his parents judgemental gaze. I stare down at it, cheeks reddening, as his parents do the same. His palms are sweaty. 

The plan was to wait until dessert to tell them, but that’s quickly looking to not be the case. 

“Mom, dad, we have something to tell you.”

Oh, shit. I blanch. Here we go.

They both stare back at us, gaze dropping to our hands then back again, hands frozen on their cutlery. They don’t say a word. 

Brendon takes his bottom lip between his lip, and sneaks a glance at me, as if looking for reassurance. I’m not feeling too reassured myself, so I can’t do much but stare blankly back at him. “Uh - ” He shifts his gaze back to his parents across the table, and takes a deep breath, squeezing my fingers until they go numb. “Well, we’re getting married.” I can tell he’s trying to sound confident, but with the shake in his voice, it comes out all wrong. 

I stare down at my plate. 

The silence that follows is long; too long. I don’t have to look up to see both of their expressions clear in my mind. 

“And we’re adopting a baby,” he adds in a moment later. 

God, he’s braver than I expected. 

Finally, after minutes drag on, hours even, Brendon’s mom says, “Brendon, is this some kind of joke? Because if it is, I can’t say I find it too amusing.”

“No, mom,” Brendon replies with a tensed jaw, “it’s not a joke.”

“Can you - Is that even possible?” Mr. Urie asks.

“Same-sex marriage was made legal like, two years ago,” he replies, agitation thick on his voice.

They both look shocked, like this is news to them, even though I distinctively remember the day it passed and Brendon called them. He had been so excited and bubbly when he had first gotten on the phone with them, grin spread from ear to ear, but by the time he got off, his expression was darkened, fists clenched into tight balls at his side. I hadn’t really expected anything different from them.

The conversation comes to an end after that, and while I couldn’t be more relieved, Brendon stares down at his plate in misery. I don’t think he expected it to go much better, but I’m sure he hoped for it. There are a million things I want to say them, yell to them. Why can’t they just be happy for their son? Do they have some sick enjoyment hurting him like this? I don’t say any of it though; I can’t, because as much as we can’t stand each other, I still want them to like me, for Brendon’s sake. 

I do the only thing I can do with them sitting across from us, and squeeze his hand still attached to mine. He doesn’t look up from his plate, but I can feel the lightest squeeze back. It’s something, at least. 

*

The next morning I wake up to an empty bed, and the faint imprint of Brendon’s body in the sheets next to me. I linger in bed awhile longer, dreading the long day to come. We have plans for an afternoon at the beach, and reservations at a popular restaurant on Sunset Strip before their drive back home. I’m not sure how any of us are going to survive the day, not with the inescapable tension as we all try to pretend that last nights conversation didn’t happen. 

Finally, I force myself out of bed and tread downstairs, hoping to snag some already made coffee. There’s the sound of dishes clattering from inside the kitchen, and as I approach I can hear the muffled voices of Brendon and his mom, thickly tense, even from down the hallway. I slow once I near the doorway, stopping where I’m out of view. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to catch onto their topic of conversation.

“I’m just not so sure it’s a good idea, Brendon,” Mrs. Urie reasons. 

“And why not?” he counters, sharply.

Giving a long sigh, she says, “Marriage is one thing, but raising a child? What happens when you two split up, and then - ”

“We are not going to break-up,” he snaps. Even though I can’t see him through the wall, I can imagine what he must look like; arms crossed over his chest, face puffed in anger. It’s always been difficult for me to take Brendon seriously when he’s angry. How could I when twenty minutes after scolding the dogs for using our new, Italian sofa as a chew-toy, he was coddling them and telling them he was sorry for being mean? 

“Brendon, he’s unstable,” she says in a lowered voice. 

Slumping against the wall, my heart plunges, feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut. There’s a moment of silence, but even from outside of the kitchen, I can feel the words hanging heavy and unforgiving. Unstable. 

I’m unstable.

“Ryan isn’t unstable, he’s perfectly fucking - ”

“Don’t swear,” Mr. Urie interrupts.

There’s another pause as Brendon sucks in a deep breath. He tries again, slow and drug out, “He’s stable, mother. He’s stable and we’re happy, okay? And if - ”

“What happens when he starts drinking again? What about drugs? He’s had problems in the past, hasn’t he? Don’t think that I don’t remember, Brendon. I remember when - ” 

Blood rushes to my face, and I try to remind myself that this is Brendon’s mom. This is what she does. She’s always found reasons to hate me, to hate the band, to hate everything Brendon’s wanted to do outside of the church and her expectations. It doesn’t stop it from hurting though, it never does. It’s something I always feared was true, but hoped wasn’t, and now it’s here, flashing like a warning sign I can’t ignore. 

“Mom. Would you stop? It’s not going to happen!” he snaps, voice laced with heavy frustration. “He’s probably had three drinks since we’ve gotten back together, and not once has he been drunk.” 

“And - ”

“And no. There’s been no drugs, either.”

“I’m just saying, he’s been down that path before. And now you’re telling me you want to add a child, making it not only you that - ”

“Mom,” Brendon hisses with added bite. “Would you please just shut up?”

“Brendon - ” Mr. Urie warns, but Brendon ignores him. 

“I know Ryan a lot better than you do, and I know it’s not going to happen. You might not approve of him or that I’m gay, but the fact is, is that I am, and I love him. I’m sorry if it’s not what you wanted. I’m sorry it’s not some nice, Mormon woman from the church. I’m sorry for disappointing you once again by treading off this perfect path you had planned out for all your children. But whether you accept it or not, it’s him I’m going to marry, and him I’m going to have a family with.” 

There’s more crashing of dishes, silverware against porcelain, and if Mrs. Urie says something, I don’t hear it. 

“Is it really so hard for you to be happy for me?” Brendon asks after a moment, sounding quiet and vulnerable. 

“Brendon - ” 

There’s shuffling and the sound of footsteps growing closer on the linoleum. I don’t have the chance to move, pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping, before Brendon appears in front of me, a plate of pancakes and coffee juggled in his hands. He stares at me, face draining of colour. I don’t know what else to do by look back at him, caught, wounded like a victim in a fight I never stood a chance in.

His parents follow soon after, stopping behind Brendon at the sight of me, alarmed expressions mirroring his. Silence falls over the four of us, tense and awkward and all too horrifying.

I force a smile, and say, “Good morning.” 

Brendon looks as if he might cry, while Mr. and Mrs. Urie appear only vaguely uncomfortable. I’ve always been a horrible liar. 

“Um. I just wanted to see if there was some, uh, coffee.” Without another word I duck past them, and into the kitchen. 

There’s murmuring on the other side of the wall, Brendon’s harsh tone clear above the others. There’s a low, angry churning in my gut, and while I can’t place my finger on the exact feeling, I don’t like it. Everything she said is what I’ve known myself - what’s true, but no one else has had the balls to say to my face. 

When Brendon comes into the kitchen a moment later, I’m leaning against the counter, staring at the large collection of photos that litter our fridge. They’re mostly of Brendon’s family, but there’s a few of us together, a few of the band, Spencer and Haley and Arianna, Zack, Shane. There’s even a small picture of my dad and I from when I was younger, tucked into the bottom corner. No matter how miniscule and hidden it is among the others, it’s still the first thing I see every time. 

“Ry.” Placing the dishes on the counter, he flies over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face into my chest. I stand there, solid, staring at the top of his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice muffled into my wrinkled t-shirt. “I didn’t want you to hear that.” I count fifty ticks of the clock, and the dogs barking in the living room before Brendon’s adding, quiet, “It’s not true, okay? You know it’s not.” He tilts his head to look at me, but I shift my gaze away, avoiding his eyes. “You know that, right? Please, Ry, they don’t know what they’re talking about.” His tone is rushed and too high, how it is whenever he becomes anxious or frightened. 

I don’t want to have this conversation. Not now, not with his parents on the other side of the wall, talking in hushed voices. Talking about me. I don’t want to have this conversation ever. 

“It’s okay. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” I lie, shrugging him off. I move over to the dishes he’s abandoned, and he watches after me, helpless. “Are these mine?” 

“Ry - ”

“Brendon,” I respond, evenly, taking the warm cup of coffee into my hands. His eyes flick towards the door, and then back to mine. I hold his gaze for a second, and watch as his shoulders cave, surrendering.

He moves over to me, slowly, and rests his head back on my shoulder, breathing out through his mouth. “They’ll be gone soon,” he murmurs, “and then it’ll be back to normal.” He looks up at me, hopeful, like he already knows it won’t be that easy. 

I nod, just barely, even though I know it won’t be either. It’s never that easy; not with us.

His fingers brush my ear, and quiet, sounding almost weak, he says, “Just don’t push me away, okay?” 

“Okay,” I reply, throat dry. 

Squeezing my arm, he sends me a brief smile, but it‘s all wrong. “The pancakes are for you too.” I nod, and he pecks me a kiss before turning and disappearing down the hallway. 

The pancakes are cold.

*

The day goes as expected; long and excruciating with forced smiles and idle chat as we all pretend nothing happened like it did. In the end, Brendon’s parents cut it short, giving us the excuse of Mr. Urie’s diabetes and the long drive home. I might’ve bought it if it weren’t for Brendon murmuring in my ear, voice laced with bite, “He’s had diabetes since I was a kid. He’s never had a problem driving before.” Either way, neither of us argued. 

Unfortunately, even though his parents leave, their presence doesn’t. For the next week, Brendon tiptoes around me, speaking in only a soft and kind tone, telling me I’ll make a great husband, and an even better father every chance given. Each day, his parents’ words repeat in my mind, and each day, I’m feeling less sure that this is a good choice.

We meet with Amanda, the prospective adoptive mother on Tuesday. All tension goes on hold for the day, as Brendon bounces around the house, beaming brighter than the sun the ride there. I can’t help but feel a twinge of happiness myself, Brendon’s excitement leaking into me through osmosis. I can’t help it, it’s contagious.

Brendon is full out shaking by the time we arrive at the agency office, and I have to hold my hand to his knee while wait in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. Decorating the ocean green walls are framed photos of families and children laughing, stable and without a single thought that it will turn out to be any less than perfect. Above us is a picture of two men grinning down at a newborn baby, it’s tiny fist wrapped around one of their fingers. 

“I can’t believe this is happening so soon.” I can feel Brendon’s grin against my ear as he pecks me a linger kiss below. It tickles. 

Just when I’m sure Brendon might spontaneously combust with nerves, the adoption worker, Beth, tells us Amanda’s ready for us and leads us down the hallway. She tells us Amanda was interested in giving to a same-sex couple, preferably males, and ours was the second application she looked over before demanding a meeting. I sneak a look at Brendon, feeling my stomach drop, but he continues smiling, seemingly unconcerned.

She leads us into another pastel coloured room, more happy families spread across the walls. On the couch directly across from us sit’s a girl who I can only assume is Amanda. 

She’s young, as expected, no older than twenty. She’s strikingly pretty, with an oval face and long, golden brown hair that reminds me of my childhood. She’s tiny, no more than 5’5, and underneath her small t-shirt, the littlest bump protrudes. For a split second, I’m worried Brendon might run up to her and start rubbing and cooing at her belly like he did to Haley. I wouldn’t put it past him. 

She stands up, grinning wide and eyes shining as Beth introduces us. I know that look too well. “I’ll leave you guys alone to get to know each other,” she says. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” 

As soon the door clicks shut behind Beth, Amanda’s crying, “Oh my god! It is you!” 

Brendon shoots me a sideways glance, expression unreadable, although, the certain gleam in his eye has dimmed. “Um, it is?” he confirms, laughing uneasily. 

“I was such a big fan.”

“Oh. Really? That’s - awesome,” Brendon falters, straining a smile, anticipation deflating. 

A fan. Of course. How hadn’t we known? What had we expected when we were called after only two weeks? We should’ve known it was only a fan that came across our application, recognized our names, and decided it was a sure way to meet the members of her once favourite band. It has been a couple of years since the band went on a break, but I’m beginning to realize it never stops. 

“Wow,” she says, tucking a strand of curl behind her ear. “This is so cool.” 

Brendon pushes out another uneasy laugh, his disappointment written clearly across his face. 

I almost expect her to whip out a camera and CD for us to sign, but instead, she takes a seat, smoothing a hand along her belly. She smiles, humorously. “Well, now that I’m done reliving my seventeen year-old self, I guess we should discuss some stuff, huh?”

Brendon knits his eyebrows together, mine mirroring without meaning. “Yeah?” he asks, tone hopeful and twined with confusion. 

“Well, yeah.” She gives a strange look, laughing slightly. “I may have loved your band religiously when I was a teenager, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give you my baby just like that.” 

“You - You still want to - ” Brendon stops, looking between the two of us, eyes regaining colour. I bite back an amused smile, and reach for his hand. 

For a moment she stares between our intertwined hands, awed, and I have to force myself to stay holding on despite my growing discomfort. I might be better than I used to, but still, showing my affection in front of others is not something I’ve quite mastered yet. Finally, though, she blinks up at Brendon, and frowns. “You didn’t think I just wanted to meet you and get my picture taken, did you?” 

Brendon sneaks another glance at me. He shrugs, guiltily, a shameful expression darkening across his face. 

Laughing, she shakes her head and motions to the chairs sitting across from her. “Sit down. Tell me about yourselves. Why I should give you my baby.” She smiles, expression soft, hand splayed across her small bump. 

Brendon’s face lights up at the motion. I’m caught between feeling happy for him, and scared for myself. 

Pulling his hand from mine, he practically skips over to a chair, making himself comfortable as he flashes her a wild grin. His smile is something that never changes, never ages, even as seasons pass and years go by; even as we change. It’s consistent, a comfort. Something I know that will always be there. No matter what tough times we go through, arguments, or babies that I don’t want, we can get through it. We’ll be okay.

“Well, we’ve been together for four years,” Brendon begins as I take the seat next to him, feeling tense and wound together like an old telephone chord. He sneaks a look at me, and I wonder if he can tell. “Well, like… I guess for two years or so years before that, but that was - ” 

“Not official,” I add in quickly. The details of our dysfunctional past, isn’t something the woman considering us her baby wants to hear. 

“Yeah. Not official. But we’re good now. Great.” He nods, vigorously. As if realizing his mistake he sneaks me another look, fear flashing through his eyes. 

“We have a house in Malibu,” I tell Amanda. If Brendon starts to freak out now, any hope we have is gone. “On the beach.” 

She nods, expression unreadable. 

“Yeah. We lived there for a few years now. We have two extra bedrooms that are perfect for a kids room. Um. There’s a really good private school just down the road.” 

“There are lots of kids around us,” I add in.

“Yeah, a lot,” Brendon agrees, nodding vehemently. “And, um, our friend, Spencer - ” he stops, noting the pleased smile sweeping across her face. “Well, yeah,” he says, laughing. “You know Spencer. Anyways, he lives just a few houses down, and he and his wife just had a baby girl not that long ago. So, the - um, well the baby would have an automatic life-long best friend. Or a secured wife, whichever.” He laughs, again, but then abruptly stops, looking at me with wide, worried eyes. “I mean, not that I’d force him or her to be friends with Arianna. They could do whatever they want. They could hate her if they wanted,” he adds, hurriedly. “It’d be completely okay. You know, what they want.” 

Amanda laughs, eyes twinkling with amusement, and I don’t know what else to do but chuckle along with her. Brendon looks at me, eyes round and cheeks flushed, begging for me to save him. 

“I’m sorry.” He swallows. “I’m just so nervous. I - I mean, we - we just really, really want a child. Ever since I was a kid myself I knew I wanted to be a dad, and then there was a time I realized I was a gay, where I thought I’d never get the chance. And now - now I have a fiancé, and it’s here, and it’s so close, and I’m just freaking out. I’m sorry.” 

Reaching over, I take his shaking hand into mine, lacing our fingers together. 

Amanda remains quiet, only leading to Brendon’s heightening anxiety as he flicks his eyes insistently between the two of us. Eventually, she looks over at me, and asks, evenly, “And you really want a baby too, Ryan?” 

There’s a way she looks at me, face blank but eyes all-knowing, that makes me feel as if she unzipped me from the outside. That she can see every doubt, every flaw that decorates my insides. I swallow, feeling caught like a deer drowned in headlights. “Well, I - Yeah, of course. Of course I do.” It’s too high, too squeaky, my eyes falling from hers without constraint. In that moment, I know I’ve blown it for Brendon. 

Brendon has always been a bad liar; but I’ve always been worse. 

He catches my eye, but he doesn’t look scared anymore, only hurt. Guilty even. A moment passes, and he looks away, eyes falling to his lap. I stare at the top of his head, stomach twisting into knots. 

We spend the remaining ten minutes, filling in the missing pieces of our lives. Our family (or, my lack of), our friends, the band, all the while a thick, tense cloud hangs above us, one that we all pretend not to notice. Although, it’s clear as Brendon sits quietly now, more reserved, eyes shifted purposely from mine. 

When she asks if we’re planning on going back to music, Brendon and I meet gazes for a moment, before together we say, “No.” There’s something final to it, something I hadn’t allowed myself to think about. 

Brendon doesn’t breathe a word the entire walk to the car, and when I reach for his hand, he pulls his arms to his chest without so much as a glance at me. I’ve don’t some pretty shitty things in my life, a handful of which to Brendon, but I’ve never felt as bad as I do now.

Maybe it’s not something that I wanted, but it’s something that Brendon did, more than anything, and that was reason enough. 

The half an hour ride from the agency to our house is silent. Brendon keeps his eyes focused out the window, never straying in my direction. It’s rush hour, the roads full with business men, Blackberry’s attached to their ears, and young girls, applying makeup through their rear-view. He’s sitting right next to me, only inches away, but somehow we’ve never felt so distant.

When we pull into our driveway, Brendon doesn’t make a run for it and disappear into the studio until early hours of the morning like I expected. Instead, he sits perfectly still. His expression is blank, although it reads clear. 

I switch off the ignition, and sit quietly next to him, waiting. If anyone has mastered the art of silent arguing, it’s Brendon. He doesn’t even have to look at you, and you’re left like a misbehaved puppy whining underneath the coffee table. On the other hand, it could also be my own guilt, magnified underneath his insufferable silence. Either way, it’s done it such a quiet, cunning way, that by the time you’ve noticed it’s months down the line and you can hardly recall what the argument was even about. 

“Bren - ” I allow myself to start after minutes pass. Our dogs that were once barking and clawing at the front window when we pulled in, have now given up and disappeared out of sight. 

As if all he needed was the sound of my voice to set him off, bringing his thoughts into words, he suddenly interrupts me, voice quieter than I would’ve expected. “Do you want this or not, Ry? Do you want a kid? Do you even want to get married?” He brings his eyes up to mine, suddenly so small in the leather seat. “You have to tell me now. This isn’t something we can do now, and return three years from now when you’ve decided it isn’t for you. Marriage, a child - me. It’s for life.” Hands twisting into knots on his lap, his gaze drifts back towards the passenger window, eyes reflecting in the small mirror. “Tell me what you want.” 

Sighing, I press my face into the steering wheel. Into the expensive leather, I mumble, “I don’t know what I want.” 

“Well, you better figure it out soon,” he replies, sharper than before. 

I grip onto the wheel, waiting for my racing thoughts to slow and land, form into words that make sense. Something that will get me out of this. Pushing off the steering wheel, I lay my back flat along the seat, staring straight ahead at the house. “I do want it,” I begin carefully. “When I think about you, and how - you know, us being a family, I want that. I’ve never had that. But then I - God, I don’t know. I don’t know the first thing about how to be a family. I think about what I’ve done to you, and people that I love - I think about my dad. And - And it just doesn’t seem like a good idea. Anymore.” I can feel Brendon’s gaze running over me now, the air between us suddenly more thin, less futile, but I keep my eyes trained ahead. “I just don’t want you to end up regretting it,” I finish off, quiet and mortifyingly vulnerable. 

“Ry - ” He reaches forward, hand circling loosely around my bicep. 

I shrug him off, and duck my head away from him. This is exactly why I never wanted to say anything to him about it. I’m so sick of everyone looking at me like that, saying things like, ‘Poor Ryan,’ like I’m some charity case. I’m not looking for pity, just for it to go away. “Look,” I say, refusing to meet his gaze, and he doesn’t reach forward to touch me again, “it’s not that I - that I don’t want it, you know? I just - I can’t - I don’t want to be - ” I shake my head, the words caught on my tongue. 

There’s a moment where Brendon says nothing, but even though I don’t look up to meet his eyes, I know he’s still looking at me. It’s probably not very long but it seems like a lifetime before he’s reaching up and cupping his hand around my neck, forcing me to look at him. “Ryan,” he says, laughing in disbelief, “you idiot. I’ve put up with too many years of your bullshit not to go all the way with you now.” He shakes his head, and laughs again, fingers dipping into the ends of my hair. “You don’t think I haven’t thought about this all before? Because I have. I’ve thought about it all, okay? And I still want to marry you, and have a family with you. I still want that stupid, white picket fence, and vacations to Disneyland. I want to grow old with you, and all the cheesy shit like that. I don’t care about your fucking dad. You’re not him. You’re already so much more than he ever was. You’ve already gotten past what he was stuck in all his life.” 

Leaning forward over the console, he kisses the corner of my mouth, thumb dancing across my jaw. “You’re going to be a great dad, okay? I know it.” 

When he kisses me again, I mumble as quiet as I can manage, cheeks heating with shame, “I’m scared.”

“And so am I,” he replies, softly. “You think I want to be my parents?” He laughs, and shakes his head again, dark hair falling into his eyes. “I don’t think anyone wants to turn out like their parents, but they deal with it and do their best.”

I sigh, sinking back into the seat. I suddenly feel really fucking stupid. “Why do you always have to be right?” 

He smiles, hand grazing the strip where my jeans and t-shirt meet, his fingers tickling the skin. “Because you always insist on freaking out over ridiculous things.”

I laugh, faintly, knowing he’s right. Things have changed drastically over these past few years. I’ve gone from running away and fucking girls, to not being able to say ‘I love you’, to engaged to Brendon and planning on adopting a kid. And now, here I am, still trying to figure out how it all happened. 

“So, we’re going to do this? For sure?” Brendon asks. “Tell me now because there’s no backing out after this. I won’t let you.”

I laugh, nudging my nose against Brendon’s. He stares back at me, eyes hopeful, and this time, there’s only one answer that’s clear in my mind. “Okay,” I murmur. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

“Yeah?” Brendon beams against my mouth.

“Yeah.” And this time, I know I mean it.

*

When I get home from Spencer’s the following day, the wedding magazines that were once layering every surface are now replaced with thick catalogues, the faces of smiling babies splashed across the covers. 

“I was thinking we could paint the babies room a soft teal colour,” Brendon says as a greeting, looking up from the glossy pages spread out in front of him. He points a finger to a nursery laid out on paper. “Or,” he says, and flips a few pages over until he lands on one with the corner dog-tagged over, “Maybe we could just have a white room, and have Disney characters painted on it. That would be really cute, right? Like The Lion King and Peter Pan, and stuff. Yeah?"

“Um. Sure.”

He looks up, eyebrows knotted together. “Ry, ” he starts slowly, worried, as if he doesn’t want to know. “Don’t tell me - ”

“No,” I say hurriedly, stopping the thought before it gets too far. “No, it’s not that. Nothing’s changed. I just - ” I shrug loosely, not wanting to burst the invisible ball of happiness that’s been enveloped around him since last night. After what happened with Amanda, I’m doubting the chances of her wanting to give us her baby. Why would you when one half of the couple interested in raising your baby looks as if they want to run for the door? “Maybe we should wait. You know, until we know for sure. With Amanda.”

He sighs, chin rested on his hand, eyes cast downwards on the magazine. “You’re right.” 

“B, it’s okay,” I start reassuringly, slinking towards him, guilt weighing me down. It’s my fault, after all. “If it’s not Amanda, we’ll find someone else. In the meantime we can plan the wedding like you wanted. That way we can like, you know, do it the right way. Get married, and then have a kid.” I take a seat next to him, knees bumping against his as I take his hand into mine. When he looks up, he’s smiling, and a breath a sigh of relief. 

“Amanda called,” he says. 

“What?” 

His grin widens, eyes suddenly flashing with excitement, as he begins to visibly vibrate in his seat. “She called! She’s still interested!” 

I blink at him, mystified. I thought for sure I had blown it. “Seriously?” is all I can think of to say.

“Yes, seriously.” He leans forward, enveloping his arms around my neck and kissing my cheek. It’s a weird angle, bound to be uncomfortable, but I sink into his hold anyway. “I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but…” He tails off, the murmur of his voice trickling down my neck. 

He pulls away, still squeezing my shoulder, and I smile. It seems to be getting easier with each moment; each radiant smile he sends me over a coffee mug or baby magazine spread in front of us. There’s still that part of me that’s hesitant, the part of me that’s not so sure this will ever go away, but I know I can’t spend my life running from it either. I’ve done countless things over the years to do just that, all of which have failed horrendously. It’s time to accept it, do my best and move on with my life. To stop letting my dad’s choices control mine. 

I wait a moment, and then while sliding the magazine over to me, I say, “Disney sounds good.” 

*

Brendon spends the next week running around the house in flurry, dusting and washing and vacuuming even the furthest, most unvisited corners of our basement for Amanda’s visit that Friday. Once again, Brendon tells me to stay out of his way, which I accept without any questions. 

Even though it’s only been a week, her belly seems rounder, more real when she appears on our doorstep. Brendon ushers her around, showing her every room in our house and more, while I mimic and confirm everything he says with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. Naturally, he spends extra time showing her the studio - it’s unnecessary, I’m sure, since considering the chances of the baby even being down their the first ten years of it’s life are highly improbable. Brendon’s uneasy about letting me touch the instruments sometimes, and half of it’s mine.

At every five minute interval, one of the many plates of foods he’s been slaving over, seems to magically appear in his hands. He insists she eats sandwich after pastries after fruit-cup until she looks like she might roll over. 

When she excuses herself to the washroom, I take the opportunity to pull Brendon into the living room. “B,” I tell him, “you need to calm down. Let her breathe.” 

“I’m sorry,” he whines with a hint of desperation. “I can’t help it. I just want her to like me. I mean, us.” He bites his lips, arms twitching at his sides. “Really bad, Ry.” 

“And she will,” I assure him, pecking the corner of his mouth. Amanda appears at the doorway a second later, smiling vividly, and Brendon jumps back, face lighting up as if he’s a child who’s been caught taking a candy bar. It doesn’t happen often, but there’s a rare time when the Mormon inside of him will decide to show itself. 

I suggest we go down to the beach, and I catch the momentary look of relief on Amanda’s face. Even Brendon looks gracious, as if it’s something that never crossed his mind.

Amanda’s five months pregnant. She tells us about the father, a mechanic three years older that wants nothing to do with the baby. She had been seeing him for a little over two months before she found out she was pregnant, and he instantly denied the chance of it being his. She swears it is, but found it pointless to argue with him any further, seeing as she isn’t keeping the baby. She makes no insinuations that we’ll be the ones keeping the baby, but she’s spending the day with us, laughing and sharing this with us, so I figure it must count for something. By the twinkle in Brendon’s eyes, he must too. 

Eventually, Brendon eases down and loosens into his normal self - mostly. He’s still teetering on the brink of insanity by the time she leaves two hours later, grinning maniacally and sending her home with plates of food. Still, she gives us a smile that appears genuine, hugs us both with her baby bump between us and tells us she’ll be keeping in touch. 

The second the door shuts behind her, Brendon’s squealing so high that surely only cats can hear it. He launches himself onto me without warning, limbs wrapping around me, causing me to crash into the wall. His lips fall on mine, attacking every part of my face, and in between, he says, “Oh my god! That went good, right? She’s totally going to give us her baby, right? You think? Do you think she will? Oh my god!” He doesn’t allow me the chance to reply before he’s kissing me with such force my head nearly smashes back into the wall. 

I kiss him back, readjusting his weight in my arms. Brendon’s tiny, but I’d be the first to admit when it comes to muscles, I am seriously lacking. 

Noticing, he kisses me once more, and drops his legs from my waist. He nudges his nose against mine, murmuring against my lips, “Do you think it went good? I wasn’t too much, was I?” 

“I think it did,” I reply, honestly. “I think she liked you. Us.”

“Yeah?” He grins.

I nod, confirming. “Yeah,” I say, and peck him another kiss. 

* 

Four visits later, Amanda still has yet to tell us whether she wants us to be the parents or not. Either way, we take the amount of visits as a good sign, and I approve the start of the nursery that Brendon’s been hungrily circling around for the past two weeks. I suggested hiring a designer, but Brendon immediately refused. (“Nesting,” he said. “Have you not seen Juno?”)

Amanda and Brendon are out on the beach again. This time, Haley and Spencer joined, bringing Arianna in tow. As she did with us, Amanda had a brief lapse of sanity when Spencer appeared, before she immediately apologized for her sixteen year-old self. Spencer smiled and said it was no big deal, but I could tell that he appreciated it. It’s been awhile since any of us have gotten the attention that had once come so frequently, and it’s nice to be reminded every so often.

After coming back from the washroom, I wait on the patio, watching them from above. Brendon has Arianna on his lap, cooing and bouncing her in the way that makes her gurgle and blow spit bubbles at him (I didn’t know at first, but Spencer later informed me that was her happy). I know we’re forever indebted to them. Bringing a baby along to show just how sickeningly sweet Brendon is with kids will lock us in for sure. 

Ten minutes into watching them, Amanda stands up, dusting the sand off her. Brendon hands Arianna to Spencer and jumps up after her, as if concerned she might fall over and die if she so much as walks a foot without assistance. However, she waves him away, and after a moment or two of hesitance, he sits back down. I consider moving and pretending I hadn’t just been spying on them, but Amanda spots me as she waddles over to the staircase and waves. 

I wave back.

“Hey,” she greets as she makes it to the top of the stairs, breathing slightly laboured. “Spying on us, are you?” 

“You caught me,” I admit, raising my hands in surrender.

She smiles, leaning against the railing next to me. Amanda was already pretty, but with the baby glow on top of it, she’s astonishing. I take certain comfort in this, because as shallow as I might be, I want my baby to be fucking beautiful. Her eyes drift down towards the beach, landing on Brendon who now has Arianna back on his lap. “I like him,” she says, simply. 

I bite back the grin creeping across my face, and say, “Me too.” 

She looks at me, squinting through the late afternoon sun. “I’m sure you can tell by all the time I’m spending here that I really like you guys.” She waits for me to nod before continuing, “And I want you two - ” She stops, taking a deep breath, and runs a hand across her bump. For a brief moment, tears circle her eyes, before she quickly blinks them away. “I know you two would be awesome parents, and you’d be able to raise the baby better than I ever could. But - ” She meets my gaze, and holds it, her own steady and serious. I drop my own, down to the beach below where Brendon has now noticed us, sneaking inconspicuous glances over his shoulder. I know he’s worried I’ll screw up like I did last time. I’m worried I’ll screw up. “Ryan, I need to know if you actually want this. There’s no question that Brendon does, but I feel like I’m getting mixed signals from you. My worst fear is giving someone my baby to take care of and love, and then have them pull out months down the road. I know you love Brendon, and I know you want him to be happy, but I need to know what would make you happy.” 

“I - ” My eyes drop from hers without meaning, before I quickly realize and force them up again. I keep them there, slightly wavering. “I want it. I promise you, I do. I want to - I want to be a dad. I want a family, you know?” The last part comes out quiet, my throat suddenly dry. I’m nearly alarmed by my own words, and the honesty it carries with it. “I’ve been excited for these past few weeks. I can’t even remember the last time I was this excited, you know? I mean, I know you can’t always tell with me, but I am. We’ve been going shopping, and started preparing the nursery. And - I don’t know - ” I fall short, shrugging timidly. 

She looks at me, minutes dragging on. I can faintly hear the distant chatter of their voices down below, drowned out by the waves crashing against the shore. For a second, I think I’ve said something wrong, before slowly, a small smile creeps across her lips, “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say.” 

Ducking my head, I laugh. “Yeah, well… I’m a man of very few words.”

“I can see that.”

Falling into a mutual silence, she looks off into the distance, face pulled into consideration. “Look,” I say after a moment, and she turns to face me. “I know I might’ve given you the wrong impression the first time I met you, but - a part of me is scared, you know? I can’t - I can’t lie about that. Just things that comes down to my own parents. Something that I shouldn’t let affect me, or at least not as long as they have, but the point is, they have, and I’m trying to change that. I know I can’t spend the rest of my life running away from their mistakes, and that just because they made them doesn’t mean I will too. Brendon’s helping me to realize that. It’s taking awhile, but I’m getting there.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” 

She turns to me, smiling easily. “Yeah,” she confirms. “Okay.” Without another word she pulls away from the banister, and heads for the door. “I’m just going to the washroom,” she tells me over her shoulder, and disappears.

I stare after her, confused. 

*

The next day Amanda shows up to tell us she wants us to be the parents. 

Brendon seems to cry for a day straight, and I might’ve even shed a tiny tear myself. Maybe.

 

*

 

A week before the due date, our house resembles Toys R’ Us on Christmas Eve, with the constant flow of Brendon’s never-ending family, as well as our friends, parading in with baby toys and blankets and pacifiers. There’s not a moment where we’re left alone. Even Brendon’s parents come in two days before, looking slightly more optimistic than they had four months prior. 

With everyday that passes, every new person that comes in, and every new baby item, it becomes a little more real. A little bit more terrifying. It had all happened so quickly, that I feel as if my brain is still only halfway through processing, I’m going to be a dad.

Brendon’s glowing in a way an expecting mother would be, and there’s been a few times in these past few months I’ve caught him with his hand resting on his belly. At first I didn’t know whether to be alarmed for his mental health, or endeared. In the end, I decided to go with endeared. 

The day before the due-date, it’s Shane who sits across the table from us, all smiles and cotton candy (“Who’s going to film your first few days of parenthood?” he asked over the phone that previous week. “Not you.” Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t refuse that.) 

Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I hate him, or have anything against him for that matter. After all, he tends to make that pretty impossible, by doing things like picking out all the marshmallows in Count Chocola for me when I was sick, amd no one else would even talk to me. However, there’s just something a little off to me about remaining close friends with someone your husband-to-be had sex with before. I mean, you don’t see me meeting up with Z for coffee, or going on shopping trips with Keltie, do you? Plus, you add in that whole awkward time where Brendon was fucking Shane and me at the same time. It was weird then, and it’s still weird now. 

While Brendon has insisted time and time again that there’s nothing going on between them, that there wasn’t even when they were fucking, the simple fact is that Shane has seen him naked. Multiple times. He knows what he looks like when he comes. I know from experience that’s just not something you can forget. All I’m saying is that Brendon is engaged now, a few days from having a kid, and I don’t think anyone else should be picturing him during an orgasm. I’ve earned that right, haven’t I?

“So, Mr. Hollywood now, huh?” Brendon asks, breaking off a piece of cookie and pops it into his mouth. I sneak a look to make sure Shane isn’t staring. Brendon can be very enticing while eating. 

“Yeah, right.” Shane laughs, grabbing for his own cookie and not looking at Brendon’s mouth. Or, maybe he did and I just missed it. I tighten my grip on Brendon’s thigh. “If it makes it to theatres it’ll just be one of those small, little indie places. You know, for hipsters and college students.” 

“Whatever. That’s still awesome.” 

He shrugs his shoulders, smiling modestly. He’s still wearing that stupid hat he was wearing six years ago when I met him. “What about you?” he asks, looking between the two of us. “Making any music lately?” 

Brendon looks at me, and shrugs. “Not really. Mostly just messing around when we have the time. And now with baby coming…” He shrugs again, but there’s a faint disappointment in his eyes, as if he’s only now realizing that a screaming, pooping, crying baby doesn’t leave much time for the studio. 

“You could teach your baby how to play instruments at a young age, and then you can all tour as one of those creepy, family bands,” Shane suggests. 

Brendon laughs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” As if the internal alarm inside his head suddenly goes off, he looks toward the clock hanging above us and stands up, fishing his phone from his pocket. “I’m just going to check in on Amanda.” It seems as the due-date gets closer, the time interval in which to call her increases every fifteen minutes. He’s down to every half an hour now. I’m sure she’s as desperate as ever to get the thing out of her so he can shut the fuck up and stop calling her. I’ve tried intervening once, but he only shrugged me off and locked himself in the bathroom to talk to her in peace. 

He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Shane. Neither of us say anything at first. I stare down at the table while he munches on cookies, and I wonder if it would be too obvious if I suddenly got up and ran into the kitchen. 

“So…” 

“So,” I echo.

“You think it’ll be a boy, huh?” 

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m undecided, but mostly, yeah.”

I am almost entirely alone in thinking this. Every single person from Brendon to his family to our friends are entirely convinced it’s a girl. I was sure Amanda had thought so too, until she pulled me aside a few weeks ago, and whispered, “Between you and me, I think it’s a boy too.” If it does end up being a boy, he’ll be one baby boy with a lot of pink stuff. I mean, I’m all for the kid being and doing what he wants, but I don’t want him to grow up with a complex or anything. 

We fall into silence as we listen to Brendon chatting away in the adjoining room. I can’t think of anything to say, and there’s not particularly anything I want to say, so I just don’t. 

Fortunately, Brendon returns soon after, saying, “She was napping. Still. She needs to be awake so she can push that baby out of her.” 

“Relax,” I tell him gently, handing taking back refuge on his thigh. “You have a whole other day before you’re allowed to get antsy.” As if forgetting Shane is sitting across from us, I lean over to peck him a kiss, only to be reminded by a click and a bright light that flashes before my eyelids. 

I pull back, and glare.

Camera still attached to his face, Shane shoots us an innocuous grin. “Well, you have to have some pictures of the loving parents for the kids to get embarrassed about.” 

“In that case…” Brendon says, smiling. He attaches his lips to my cheek as Shane snaps another picture.

I can’t help but smile.

*

Three days past the due-date, there’s still no sign of the baby. Brendon’s going so crazy that if I could tranquilize him and wake him up just minutes before the birth, I would, just to spare us all some sanity. 

Over the past couple days he’s come up with numerous inane theories, springing from, “Maybe the baby knows she’s giving it up, and is planning on staying in her as long as possible. I read that they can totally hear inside the womb,” to my favourite, “Maybe Amanda actually gave birth already, and she doesn’t want to give us the baby, so she’s pretending she hasn’t yet so she doesn’t have to let us down.” 

I attempt to distract him with sex (“Once the baby comes, the sex stops. I mean, just gone, man,” Spencer had warned me sullenly, over a shared joint the previous week. So, I figured I have to get in as much as we can now). However, even that doesn’t stop him, because every few minutes he’ll reach for his phone sitting on the pillow next to us to see if she called.

Finally, on the fourth day, we get a text from Amanda telling us her water broke. On the way to the hospital, Brendon goes over a never-ending list of things to go wrong. “Are you sure we’ve gotten everything for the nursery? Maybe we should’ve gotten that musical duck. Do you think? Maybe you can run and get that. What if Amanda changes her mind, and wants to keep it? Then what? Or what if we don’t know what we’re doing? What if we kill the baby? Oh my god, Ryan. I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know how to raise a baby! I’m going to kill it!” 

“Brendon,” I start, steady as I can manage, gripping onto the steering wheel for support. “Come on.” It’s only been a few weeks since those very thoughts were running rampant through my head, and it feels surreal - as well as mildly terrifying - now that we’ve suddenly switched roles. While the majority of my anxieties have been pushed away, unwanted and nearly forgotten, there are still remnants that linger, sparked by Brendon’s words. Swallowing, I push the panic creeping in my gut and reach for his hand, squeezing. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, B. We’ve got the nursery and more, and I think the musical bear is enough for now. Also, I don’t think Amanda will be changing her mind, and I really doubt that we’ll kill the baby, all right? We’ve been to enough classes and read enough books to raise an army of children. Besides, you were already well equipped before that anyway. Plus, Spencer and Haley are just a few houses down if we feel we have no idea what we’re doing.” 

From the corner of my eye, I watch as the air deflates from Brendon’s chest. He still looks worried though, face white as he stares out the window in front of us. The ocean and two story homes now replaced with buildings that tower above, poking holes into the blue sky. “I’m sorry. I’m just - Fuck. I’m so nervous.” 

“And you think I’m not?” I return. 

He sighs, moving some hair out of his face. Purple bags sit underneath his eyes from the lack of sleep over the past week, due to his phone permanently attached to his hand. I squeeze his fingers once more, and say, “I’m pretty sure every person who’s about to come a parent gets nervous. Even Spencer and Haley, remember?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, exhaling deeply. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

“It’s too late to turn back now,” I say. “We’re in for the long run now.”

Coming to a stop at a red light, I turn towards him. I watch as his shoulders visibly begin to loosen, and he looks at me, as if savouring my words, locking them away from another time. His hand moves in mine, sticky with sweat, and I feel the warm band slide against my skin, soothing me. “Yeah,” he says, smiling wide as the light turns green, “The long run.” 

*

I last exactly five minutes cowering in the corner of the delivery room, before deciding it’s not my thing. Brendon looks disappointed as I dash for the door, although understanding, because even he looks partially horrified as Amanda yells in pain next to him. He and her mother sit on opposite sides of her, offering their hand as a squeeze toy whenever a contraction comes along or a nurse shoves their fingers between her elevated legs. 

Childbirth is supposed to be this beautiful, magical thing, but to me it only looks painful and highly nauseating. 

It’s been nearly twelve hours since we were first called down to the hospital. I know these things can take a long time, but this is just getting ridiculous, and I’m not even the one screaming in pain while strangers poke at my vagina. 

In the waiting room, I collapse onto the chair next to Spencer, pushing my face into my hands. Spencer pats my shoulder consolingly, and says, “It’ll all be over soon enough.” 

“Like you’d know. You only had to go through eight hours of this,” I grumble miserably between my fingers. 

“Neither of it matters in the end.”

I sigh, knowing he’s probably right. 

We pass the next hour by watching one of those ridiculous soap opera’s playing on the TV above. Haley had been here a few hours prior, but had left once it started to get late and Arianna fussy. She promised she’d be back bright and early the next morning to see the new baby girl. I was too exhausted to argue that it was a boy. 

The door to the delivery room opens, and Brendon appears, looking more disheveled and worn-out than even I feel. I jump, thinking it might be time, but he folds onto the chair next to me. He presses his face into my shoulder, nose ghosting against my neck. “Make it end,” he whines. 

I take his hand onto my lap, and squeeze. 

Spencer reaches over the back of my chair, ruffling Brendon’s hair. “Hey, you guys are doing awesome. Trust me, I wanted to kill myself waiting for Arianna, but once she was born, she was so worth it.” 

Brendon swallows, and pushes his face further into my neck.

“Here,” Spencer offers, standing, “I’ll go get you guys coffee from the cafeteria. I’ll be right back.” He gives me one last pat on the shoulder, and I send him what I can of an appreciative smile. 

“I’m scared,” Brendon mumbles into my neck, soft and vulnerable. 

“Bren, come on. You’ll do fine. You know you - ”

“No, I mean - ” He sighs, pulling his head from my shoulder. He tucks his bottom lip between his lips, and looks at me with round, scared eyes. “She’s going through all of this, and - I mean, for what? Just to give this baby up to us? What if - What if after all this she decides it’s not worth it? That - ” He shakes his head and swallows, eyes drifting down the hallway from me.

“Hey,” I say softly, smoothing my hand through his hair. He sinks into it. “Come on. Don’t think like that, okay? You’re just getting yourself all worked up and upset over something that you don’t even know is going to happen.” But, the truth is, the thought had crossed my mind while seeing her crying out in pain on the hospital bed. Who would want to go through all that pain and suffering, just to hand off the baby, knowing you might not ever see it again?

“I’m so scared, Ry. I want this so bad.” 

“And so do I,” I reply, truthfully, fingers still combing through the back of his hair, “but you’ve got to stop doing this. You’re going to be a wreck all throughout parenthood if you always expect the worst.” 

Sighing, he turns to look at me. “I hate it when you’re right.” He pouts. 

“Not that it happens very often or anything.”

He smiles, leaning in to brush his lips against mine. “Love you,” he murmurs. 

“Love you too.” 

Spencer returns a few minutes later with two cups of steaming coffee in tow. He hands one to each of us. “Gourmet hospital coffee to the new dads.” 

Brendon grins, and holds his cup up in the air towards me. “I’ll toast to that.” 

I laugh, knocking the Styrofoam against his, and chug back half the beverage in one gulp. What normally tastes like ground dirt, now tastes like Columbia’s finest.

Once Brendon finishes his drink, he smoothes his hand along my shoulder and stands up, sighing. “Well, I guess I better go back in there and watch our baby girl be born.” 

“Baby boy,” I correct, and he rolls his eyes, leaning down to peck me a kiss. 

“Are you coming in?”

I shake my head, eyes widening as I hear her scream from inside. “Hearing her scream like that only makes me scared for the demon child that’s going to come clawing out of her.”

“Oh shut up.” He smacks me across the head, rolling his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. Spencer snorts. “Well, I’m going back in there, anyway,” he says, but even he looks scared. 

I reach forward and hold onto his hip, thumb pressing into the bone. “Come and tell me as soon as he’s born.” 

“She,” Brendon says, as he skips back towards the door, grinning wickedly. He doesn’t give me a chance to argue, before the door is closing behind him.

*

An hour later, the door to the delivery room opens again. Except this time, it’s not Brendon that stares back at me, but a grinning nurse instead. “Congratulations, dad,” she beams. 

I blank out for a few, good moments, until Spencer starts pushing at my back, saying, “Go, man! Go on! You’re a fucking dad!” 

I’m a fucking dad. 

My feet practically lead themselves as I stumble across the waiting room where the nurse ushers me inside. Brendon’s standing near the end of the bed, where Amanda lies collapsed into the covers, her mother stroking her hair. As I get closer, I see he’s grinning down at a bundle of hospital blankets bunched in his arms, tears rolling down his cheeks.

He doesn’t seem aware of my presence until I’m standing next to him, and even then, he only looks up at me for a brief second before his eyes fall back down. In his arms, covered in blankets, a tiny, pink face peaks its way out. “Meet your son,” he murmurs. 

I curl my hand around his hip, and press my lips against his temple, staring down at the baby - our baby - in awe. 

I’m a dad. Brendon’s a dad. We’re dads. Together. 

Before I realize it, I feel a tear drop slip from my eye, and then the other. I reach forward, running my thumb against his smooth cheek, and then his tiny fingers, not even half the size of my pinkies. “Hi baby boy,” I whisper. “I guess your dad was right after all.” 

Brendon laughs, sniffling, and tilts his head to look at me. “You want to hold him?” 

I nod, just barely. I have to blink a few times to clear my eyes, as well as my head. Brendon slides him into my arms, carefully, and he’s so tiny, so delicate, I’m worried I’ll break him on touch. 

Wrapping his arms around my middle, Brendon presses his forehead against mine as we look down at our son, trapped between our bodies. His eyes blink open, big and brown. They remind me of Brendon’s. 

As I reach down, running my fingers back over his tiny hands, Brendon’s dance across my cheek. “You’re a dad.” He smiles, another silent tear escaping. 

I brush my mouth against his, tasting salt on my lips, and murmur, “We’re dads.” 

 

*

 

Two minutes after seven on Saturday morning, I’m awoken by sharp crying coming through the monitor next to my head. It’s better than six at least, even five, which he has been making a record of these past two months, but still, I feel like I’ve barely slept at all. 

Brendon whines, hugging his pillow over his head. “Noah,” he groans through a mouthful of cotton, “let daddy sleep. Just for once. Please.” 

Rolling over, I laugh and press my mouth to his bare shoulder. “Go back to sleep. I’ll get him.” 

“Ngh,” Brendon says into the pillow. I don’t take it as an argument as I roll out of bed, taking the baby monitor with me.

Since Noah’s room is directly across from ours, I pull the door shut, hoping Brendon will be able to fall back asleep. He’s slept even less than me these past two months since we’ve brought Noah home. He’s too busy trying to be super dad, and too anxious to even when he has the chance. He’s only now beginning to realize that Noah isn’t going to disappear the second he takes his eyes off him. 

His room is nearly pitch black from the blinds we installed, and I open one across from the crib, early morning light flooding into the room. It’s Disney themed, like we wanted. We even hired a professional to paint different Disney characters along each wall, and despite our anxiety (“I swear to God I’m painting over it if it sucks,” Brendon warned, chewing his thumbnail until it was nearly non-existent. “I don’t care how much we spent,”) it had turned out better than we had hoped. 

His crying falters for a moment, and I think that he might actually stop, before he starts up again at an even higher level. I’m still amazed how such tiny things can make such loud noises. 

“Sh, Noah. Dad’s here,” I say softly, picking him up from inside his crib and hold him to my chest. “Dad’s tired, but he’s here.” I rock him, trying to calm him, but if he quiets at all, I can’t tell. “It’s too early for this. You want daddy to sleep so he can play with you all day, don’t you?” 

He stops to hiccup, then whimper, and begins to cry again, but it’s a notch quieter this time, at least. 

“How about we change your diaper, will that make you feel better? Do you promise dad you’ll stop crying then?” I place him down onto the table, reaching for a diaper on the shelf. He begins to cry harder. “Oh, sh,” I hush him, unbuttoning his onesie, “Life isn’t that hard.” 

For the first week he was home, I refused to change his diaper. Brendon would roll his eyes at me, tell me I’d have to eventually, but I continually refused. But then, a week later he passed out on the couch after nearly a week of insomnia, and I couldn’t call up Spencer because Haley and him were visiting her parents in Vermont (okay, and he’d laugh in my face and hang up on me, anyway) so I knew I had no choice. I can’t say I like changing disgusting, poopy diapers, but at least I’m able to tolerate it now. 

By the time I’ve changed him, his crying has gone down to only a few whimpers. “Ah, that’s much better now, huh?” I rub his belly, and blow a raspberry against his skin. He stops his whimpering to smile, and I blow another one before he can start crying again. “There we go. I knew you could smile somewhere in those tears.” 

Smiling is a recent development, only happening last week while Brendon was playing peek-a-boo with him in the living room. I tried for the next three days to get him to smile for me, doing everything I knew possible, until he finally did while passing gas, of all things, and now he won’t stop.

“Should we get you a bottle before you start crying on me again? Yes, I think we should.” Baby talk was something I never saw myself doing until Noah came along. I started before I realized, but then could never get myself to stop. It’s impossible. “Let’s go get you a nice, warm bottle, and then we can snuggle up on the couch and watch cartoons. Will that make you happy?” I scoop him into my arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead before he reaches up and tugs on my hair. That’s also another recent development. “Ah, yes, dad loves you too. He just doesn’t always love your smelly diapers, that’s all.” 

When I turn, Brendon’s leaning against the doorway, smirking with a bottle in his hands. I nearly jump and drop Noah in fright. “You suck. I told you to stop doing that.” 

Laughing, he enters the room, bending down to peck Noah a kiss and then me. “I can’t help it. It’s just too adorable watching you two when you don’t think anyone is looking.” 

I roll my eyes, and grab the bottle from him, feeling heat begin to trickle up my neck. “Oh, shut up.” I press the bottle to Noah’s mouth, and he immediately takes to it, sucking it back. “You’re supposed to be in bed.” 

He shrugs, and bats an innocent eyelash. “Like I’d miss spying on you,” he jokes, and moves a strand of hair from my face affectionately. He presses his front against my side, not to squish Noah, and rests his head on my shoulder, wrapping his fingers around Noah’s small ankle. 

We all agreed on an open adoption with Amanda. We’re to send pictures every month, a phone call every second, but at the moment, she doesn’t want anything more than that. We’re fine with that, but even though Brendon would never admit it, I know he worries that one day she’ll decide she wants him back. She’s assured us she never would, that he’s ours now, he was always are, but there’s always a chance. He is legally ours now, and it wouldn’t be quite as easy as coming over and taking him from us, but still, she’s the birth mother, something we aren’t. It’s not something I chose to think about though, because even in these two short months, he already feels like he’s ours, in all ways. 

“Our baby’s so cute,” Brendon says, reflectively. He smiles against my jaw, fingers drawing patterns against my bare hip, Noah blinks up at us, big eyes and long eyelashes, still sucking away on his bottle. 

I smile, pecking a kiss to the tip of his nose, and say, “The cutest.”


End file.
